


Untitled Novel (ReverseHipster)

by ReverseHipster (jaguaria)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1990s, 2010s, Adventure, Character Death, Character Study, Coming of Age, Cults, Detectives, Exploration, Family Dynamics, Female Protagonist, Friendship, Gangsters, Good Seeds (Far Cry), Inspired by many fictional works, Kinda..., Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, No Sex, Novel, Older Characters, Original Fiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Plot, Portals, Secrets, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, Superpowers, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Time Loop, Werewolf Reveal, Worldbuilding, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaguaria/pseuds/ReverseHipster
Summary: Recently graduated Harlow Grisco has moved to Port Charlemagne, Maine to stay in her deceased great-aunt's house for the summer. Her new co-workers are aloof and stand-offish, her neighbors are just as nice as they are nosy, and she can't shake the lingering feelings of being watched by someone else altogether: the ominous portraits hanging in the hallway. Things become even stranger when she holds a lens up to them and discovers a hidden world full of mystery and danger. Determined to solve the mystery of who killed her great-aunt, she takes the leap.In the first portrait, a masked stranger points Harlow in the direction of a run down cabin inhabited by an injured veteran who is not only more isolated than she is, but is also a werewolf. Everyone else she comes across seems to have such special abilities, but there is no way of knowing who really committed the crime, at least not until one of these peculiar individuals ends up dead and another is missing.In way over her head in a world of stagnant environments, Harlow struggles with her underlying trust issues and must decide who she considers to be her friends, and who might be hiding a bit more than a severe case of cabin fever.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is still very much a work in progress (first draft), so please be gentle, and considerate, should you choose to critique.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 1! I hope you all like it. :D

**June 1st, 2019**

Harlow looked down at her aged dress shoes, or more specifically, her mother’s that she’d borrowed for the funeral. It was an odd sort of tic, but she couldn’t help but push the tip of her left shoe into the instep of her right shoe and watch as the mud from outside scuffed and dirtied the previously pristine shoe. A speck got onto her tights and it felt warm for a moment before turning cold like fallen tears. With another slip of her ankle, another streak of mud appeared on the black flat. In a way, it was painful, and in another, it was uncomfortable, a perfect distraction from the pain and discomfort from her surroundings. 

Even to herself, Harlow knew it was merely a distraction, and a poor one at that. Her hands tightened around the square package in her lap, not wanting to look at it, but also not wanting to let it go. She felt eyes on its beautiful paper and crumpled, yet still elegant, bow, and despite her mixed feelings about its presence in her life at the moment, she knew she’d be rather enraged if it were to be out of her hands and opened by someone with a more desperate curiosity.

With a practiced blank expression, Harlow lifted her head up to look around the nave. While it wasn’t a big church, and the Grisco family wasn’t large, the heat made the service all the more stifling. It was the kind of moist, humid heat that bore down on a person and made them sweat, making them feel even more weighed down. While there wasn’t rain, there was definitely fog “as thick as pea soup,” or so her mother said.

Mrs. Wendy Grisco was currently speaking to her sister-in-law, Harlow’s aunt Margo, while her husband Shaun was speaking with his cousins on the other side of the pews. None of them were in tears, but there was a subdued tenor in their voices and a crinkling of their middle-aged faces.

Meanwhile, Harlow’s cousins were in a few more widespread groups. As fate would have it, her grandpa Sherman and her great-uncle Arthur were twins, and as such, their children were around the same ages, give or take a few years. However, their grandchildren weren’t. Harlow’s other cousins were born between 1992 and 1997, and her nine second cousins were born from 2008 to 2017, while Harlow, who was the youngest of Sherman’s grandkids, was born in 2001.

With such an age difference between her and her eighteen cousins, she was often left out of activities for being too old or too young, depending on which group was playing. Even here, at her great-aunt Diana’s funeral, she was sitting alone, not that she minded, of course. In fact, she  _ preferred _ it that way.

If she were being honest, Harlow didn’t even really like her younger cousins anyway. There was always someone who got hurt during games, and so there would always be someone crying, and the others were typical germ-mongers who she remembered licking and touching anything they could get their grubby little fingers on.

Ironically, Harlow’s older cousins thought the same of her but not quite to the same extreme. Mostly, they gossiped about family drama that she’d been much too young to remember, and when they weren’t, they were going on about sports, or parties, or other unsavory things that Harlow didn’t even  _ want _ to know about.

“So what  _ did _ happen?” Harlow perked up a bit at the sound of one of her older cousins speaking low enough so their parents couldn’t hear. Unconsciously, she listened in to the conversation being held between five of the dark-clad twenty-something-year-olds, keeping her head towards the altar and expression neutral.

“Well… my dad was saying it was  _ murder _ ,” a male voice rasped conspiritorially.

“But why? She was always so nice,” a female voice protested.

“I don’t know, but it was  _ brutal _ ,” the same male answered, “She was  _ stabbed.” _

“Oh, so that’s why it’s a closed casket. Was it a burglary? She  _ did _ travel a lot, and would always bring back souvenirs for us?”

“I don’t think so, apparently nothing was taken,” another male voice piped up, an uncorrected lisp identifying him as Thomas, the cousin closest to Harlow’s own age.

“Yeah, and  _ all _ the doors and windows were locked, like… there was  _ no possible way _ to get into the house, and yet…” 

“What if someone was hiding in the attic? Or in the walls like in that one movie?”

“What if they’re still there?”

Harlow could tell all of them were looking towards the closed casket, and then secondly, her. An embarrassed flush began to creep up her neck and she felt her shorter hair beginning to inconveniently itch around her nape. Again, she clutched the box.

“Is that Harlow?” the other female voice asked the others and the girl in question grit her teeth awkwardly, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. It  _ was _ a very childish thing to do.

“Harlow the Hazard…” Thomas teased, only slipping up on the “th” in “the.”

Irritated now, she turned around and leveled them with the best glare she could muster at the mere mention of that name. It felt like she was an ignorant eight years old again and trailing after the teenagers who called her names with their big words and giving her no indication as to what they meant.

Harlow breathed, reaffirming her neutral expression. She was an adult now, and it would be very immature to act on such a childish insult right before the funeral service, “Yeah, it’s me,” she finally said.

“Hmm… Grandpa was saying that you were going to be living in Aunt Diana’s house now, right?”

Harlow felt herself blush further with embarrassment at being the center of attention. Thankfully, they weren’t coming to sit by her, “That’s right, I, yeah, I mean…” she stumbled a bit, the words getting lost from her brain to her mouth, “For the summer… I’m going to live there for the summer.”

A few of her cousins seemed to smirk at her fumblings. She could almost feel their mirthful eyes when she returned her eyes to her scuffed shoes, “Well? Aren’t you scared?”

“It’s been a couple of weeks since it happened, and there still hasn’t been anything stolen or otherwise. No, I’m not scared, and I’m not a little kid anymore,” she responded with just a smidge more venom than she meant to let slip.

Thomas cracked another smirk, striding over to where she sat and patting her head as though she were a dog, “You don’t get it, Harley. You’ll always be a little kid to us.”

Harlow moved to tell him off but then she remembered herself, pointedly turning around as everyone else thankfully took their seats. Her hands balled into fists as she clutched the package closer, the corners digging into her abdomen. She forced herself to look up at her Aunt Diana’s casket and her smiling image resting in front of it.

The stained-glass windows above the small transepts drew colorful shapes along the floor and up onto the frame, reflecting a rainbow along the edges of the photo. Diana’s long gray curls were especially vibrant and radiant, a harsh light catching her right side. Her beloved pearl necklaces adorned her neck, and the patterned blouse she wore matched just enough. She looked so happy, and with her arms crossed as they were, she looked triumphant.

Despite her best efforts, Harlow’s lips began to waver and her eyes grew hot with salty tears building up behind her cloudy green eyes. Her mother leaned over, trying to grasp one of her hands but the teen quickly moved it out of her grasp, “I’m fine,” she whispered frantically, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Crying like a baby wouldn’t prove she could live by herself, and she was more than ready to shed the awkwardness of high school and simply move on with her life. It simply wouldn’t do to make a bad first impression of her new status as a mature eighteen-year-old living on her own.

★★★

After days of driving, sleeping in cheap motels, and a funeral, Harlow fought the urge to smack her forehead into the car window as she sat buckled into the backseat of her parents’ tiny car for the last little stretch of their journey. The interior felt cramped enough without all the luggage encroaching on her breathing room, but the mounting restless chatter from the driver and passenger seats made it even more so. After seemingly countless hours of being pushed against the door, she didn’t think she could take much more of it. Her fingers impatiently trailed along the edges of the gift-wrapped cube in her lap as her breath fogged up the corner of the glass her cheek rested on.

A perpetual frown tugged at the corners of Harlow’s chapped lips as she stared listlessly at the shifting gray ocean outside. They were arguing again.

Well, it wasn’t so much as arguing as much as it was firmly discussing the family drama on either side of her parents’ lineage, or deciding which family was crazier, improper, or less  _ normal _ as they usually did when something happened on either side. Nothing ever really changed with any of them, so it usually amounted to them talking in circles until someone changed the subject. The funeral had been like kindling to simmering ashes, reigniting the discussion after speaking to multiple family members, both the odd and the normal.

That was a word both Shaun and Wendy Grisco liked to throw around: normal. When they said it, it felt like a status, like an award for being a mediocre, average, and absolutely ordinary presence in the crowd. 

They’d wanted the popular athletic homecoming queen, and instead they got her, the awkward antisocial shut-in that somehow landed a bunch of scholarships but had only the faintest idea of what she wanted to do with her life. They didn’t even have to verbalize this disappointing thought when she already felt it in their joking sighs and longing nostalgic looks at her peers’ sporting uniforms.

Harlow didn’t feel “normal,” or at least her parents’ idea of “normal.” She felt like a misprint, or a paper jam that didn’t come out quite right, and for a while, she thought that was a bad thing.

When she was nine, she realized that her name meant “army,” which to a little girl meant that she had a ‘boy’s name.’ It also sounded very similar to “Marco,” “Carlo,” and most of all, “Barlow,” which is what many of her classmates called her when they tried to decipher the name from her flustered mumbles on the playground.

When she asked her parents about it, they told her that they thought “Harlow” was “a fitting name for a unique and quirky girl.”

By “unique and quirky,” her parents meant that she was reserved and independent, which wasn’t unique nor quirky in the slightest, but it wasn’t  _ normal _ either. Why they seemed to strive for her normalcy and yet doomed her from the beginning to be “unique” was beyond her.

For Harlow, being reserved and independent meant that she simply had nothing to say because she’d always done her own thing and required no one’s commentary except  _ theirs _ , her ex-best friends. 

“Perhaps, I am unique and quirky  _ because  _ my name is ‘Harlow Grisco.’” she derisively told her parents one night when she was thirteen. 

The sentence had come out angry, even if she hadn’t meant it to. They’d laughed stiffly at her behavior, patting her on the head to ruffle her dark hair. Then, adding insult to injury, they’d patronizingly sent her off to bed after warning her about her supposed sass as parents tended to do when their children blamed them for something they had complete control over. The conversation was never brought up again, mostly because Harlow was afraid of what else she’d say.

Such was a similar case with her friends, their names feeling like bile in her throat, sour on her tongue and rotting in her gut. She hardly wanted to even  _ think _ of them again and instead try to push their names and faces into obscurity as soon as possible. In her opinion, what they’d done to her was unforgivable. 

After nearly a decade of friendship, they’d begun to grow away from her, leaving her behind. Neither of them invited her to their houses anymore, nor asked to go to hers like they’d used to. They shared classes during junior year, but quickly invited a new student into their fold. It had been a slow, almost surgical incision made by their hands to extract her from their lives. She’d been so blind to it until she trailed after them in the hallway and another friendly classmate asked if they were “still doing the ‘Devil’s Lettuce’,” only for them to answer with humor in their words but seriousness in their tone. 

That had been the moment that Harlow still remembered so vividly after a little less than a year later. Drugs had always been a sore subject with her, nearly drilled into her as soon as she could ask about them. With her mother being a cop, she knew countless stories about the darker side of substance abuse, as though the years of health classes, gross videos of hairy tongues, and threats of lung cancer weren’t enough to permanently dissuade her from them entirely.

At first, there was revulsion that her friends, people she trusted to have good judgement, would decide to do drugs, let alone  _ think _ about doing them. Then, there was the feeling of betrayal and the realization that they didn’t trust her to have the knowledge of their less savory behavior, likely because of her mother. Lastly, there was the shaken bottle of mixed rage and sadness that promised to explode once she was alone.

Of course, not knowing what else to do, she told her parents and their consoling words turned their once kind words about her best friends into sour declarations that accentuated their lesser qualities. “I never really liked them, Harley… They were  _ weird _ . They never talked. You’ve outgrown them.” Except for that last part, Harlow understood what her mother meant, and it made her feel a bit better.

At one point, she wanted to tattle on them like the overly-emotional child she’d felt like, to bring them the same amount of misery she was going through after losing nearly a decade of friendships in a slow drip of shifting sand, and Harlow felt buried in it for the entirety of her senior year.

School turned toxic and so unbearably  _ cold _ . She couldn’t stand to look at them, and the worst of it was that they ignored her in return. There was no questioning as to why she wasn’t talking to them anymore, or why she stopped going near them. Numbness encroached on her throat, the confrontational words dying on her tongue when her emotions ran high. In the midst of winter, seasonal depression hit her harder than it ever had before, crippling her with panic attacks and dizzy spells at the very thought of going to school and seeing them so carefree with their new friends.

So, Harlow threw herself into her studies, swearing off friendships because they seemed to bring nothing but pain in the long run. It was also the last half of her senior year, and even something short-term would’ve been a waste of time in her opinion. 

Harlow’s parents noticed her withdrawn behavior and more or less pressured her into getting a job to have something to do other than “sit up in your room all the time.” As her choice, she decided faking a cheery disposition as a waitress was easier than frying patties in a fast food restaurant. Monte’s Diner took her on easily enough, and she was quite skilled with balancing trays even if she wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Then, a few weeks later, she began receiving letters from Diana. 

For a while, Harlow wondered which of her parents had spoken to her about her lack of friends, but after the third letter detailing a rather hilarious story about her father’s childhood, she decided it didn’t matter. The elderly woman was understanding about her grand-niece’s depression, even providing some great tips to lessen it. Her husband had died of lung cancer around the time Harlow was born, and both thought it was ironic that the same source caused them grief.

For months, Diana shared poems, old postcards, and recollections of her first travels to Europe and Asia among little anecdotes about her present life on the east coast. Feeling obligated, Harlow attempted to reciprocate by telling what little life experience she had, detailing comparatively boring school trips and facts about her tiny hometown in the Midwest. 

Harlow soon began to feel a bit better about herself with each passing letter, the neat, flowing script making her day each week when she got a new one. Sometimes, the letters contained interesting, albeit random, information, like how to decode secret messages with the Ceasar cipher, or how to start a campfire. Even if Harlow thought she’d never make use of the information, she still enjoyed learning what Diana had to teach her, even taking up poetry with her encouragement and sending little drawings she’d made in return.

She liked to draw monsters, demons, masked killers, and really anything that delved into the gritty aspects of society only really touched upon in the written word or in cinema. Naturally, it was understandable that other students kept their distance in school, but it also provided little to no opportunities to make friends. However, Diana enjoyed the drawings, as they reminded her of paintings done by Goya or William Blake. Harlow had never heard of them, but immediately drew connections between her depictions and theirs. 

In March, Diana made the offer for Harlow to come live with her for the summer, and she all but begged her parents to let her go. She’d get to live in Maine for a few months, spend time with the great-aunt she rarely got to see other than around the holidays, and forget her less than comfortable high school experiences. The old woman even mentioned speaking to an old friend of hers so that she could easily get a job at one of the many tourist-trap bars before the local youth snatched them all up. She didn’t even have to interview for it, which immediately prompted her to send a thank you note to Diana. This opportunity seemed like the best thing she’d been given in a very long time.

Harlow had just tugged off her sweltering graduation gown when her parents pulled her aside and informed her about Diana’s passing, and just like that, all of the previous feelings of nausea, desolation, and piping-hot rage came rushing back into her lungs to constrict her breathing. Embarrassingly enough, she bawled in her parents’ arms for the better part of an hour, fighting the urge to punch something to get rid of the emotions she was having.

Later, when she laid curled up in a foetal position on her bed, her eyes puffy and red with drying tears, she made a vow that she would find the person who killed Diana. She hadn’t deserved her fate, and Harlow wanted to do something about it. So, she reasoned with her parents to let her keep her summer plans and talked her grandfather into letting her live in his older sister’s house. Harlow reasoned with herself as well, telling herself that she would be an adult living on her own, and she wanted to prove to everyone, even her parents, that she didn’t need help doing so, and finding Diana’s murderer would further solidify her independence and success with being an adult.

“Harlow? Are you awake back there?” Her mother interrupted her thoughts, making the teen sit up straighter in her seat.

“Yeah, Mom. I’m up.” The eighteen-year-old rubbed her eyes slightly to get the rest of the unshed tears out of them. Truthfully, she’d been daydreaming since they’d left the funeral home about twenty minutes prior, taking in the endless ocean and rocky outcroppings with half-lidded eyes as they passed by.

“Good, because we’re gonna be there soon” Mr. Grisco chimed in tiredly, slowing the car down as they rounded a bend and began to descend down a steep hill. Harlow gaped at the sudden jostling but then leaned in between her parents, taking in the little seaside town as it came into view behind the windshield. 

The New England coastline was foggier than she’d remembered. Humid clouds curled in from the sea, its chilly wisps seeping down from the sky to mingle with the warm summer earth. Beyond the dense vapor, a tall lighthouse shone through, swiveling its massive eye back and forth along the choppy gray waves. Despite the weather, there were many fishing vessels out in the bay, or ‘The Devil’s Cove,’ as the locals called it. Tugboats, sailboats, ferries, and shipping barges joined the fray, crossing to and fro across and around the bay in a coordinated effort.

On the land to Harlow’s right, everything was so lush and green behind the fog. Moss grew on the rocky outcroppings and gripped the edges of the road tightly as their particularly packed car sped down the bumpy winding road. The dew-dripping grass blew lazily, creating a mesmerizing rippling effect along the bluffs above them.

Harlow rolled down her window and stuck her head out to feel the breeze, much to the chagrin of her parents, but the car was slowly coming to a stop. The air smelled of salty brine and dead fish, almost masquerading the musty scent of water-logged trees, flowers, and the earth itself.

Antique-sounding bells clanged, signaling their owners’ approaching or departing ships while deck-hands and seamen busily milled about the warehouses and cargo-holds in the shipyard. They wore muted turtlenecks and dirty neon orange overalls despite the early-summer climate. A few looked over at their little vehicle before dismissing them with a head-shake of exasperation. Harlow was sure her family had been shamelessly gawking. Embarrassed, she turned her sights to the opposite window.

Seagulls called each other out indignantly, fighting over the scraps of the aforementioned dead fish and the morsels they’d stolen from ignorant tourists. Harlow swore she could spot one triumphantly eating a cardboard boat full of french fries while another was eyeing her from its perch on the welcoming sign. Its beady little yellow eyes seemed to narrow at her in warning before it flew off. She rolled her window back up.

_ “Welcome to Port Charlemagne”  _ was painted in big blocky letters over a beach scene while  _ “Historic Harbor Town” _ was painted in cursive along the bottom. The sign and accompanying shrubs seemed well-kept until she saw the opposite side. There, the shrubs looked a bit ratty and disheveled, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Harlow’s cloudy green eyes caught a spray-painted message reading “Home of the Hallowind Gang” on the back of the sign. She shivered, feeling something strange curl around her upper spine before dissipating.

“Aunt Diana used to bring us down here as kids.” Her father spoke fondly, tears shining in his reddened eyes, “‘Called it the ‘Fishing District.’ She knew a lot about Port Charlemagne, y‘know?”

Harlow nodded, unsure of what to say. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the harbor looked sketchy at best. Instead, she gulped subtly, trying to keep her emotions out of her expression.

The Griscos had known for a while that Diana’s time among the living was coming to an end. She’d been eighty years old, or “eighty-years- _ young, _ ” as she’d preferred to say it. Her life was full of exciting adventures with a husband whom she’d loved deeply. When he’d passed, everyone thought that she’d soon follow, but it had been seventeen years since then and she’d been in perfect health.

Neither had been eager to have kids of their own, but Diana’s younger brothers had many children, and they’d always been glad to help out when they were in the states.

Before getting to know her better, Harlow had been as close to Diana as she could be to a great-aunt she’d only seen a few times a year, mostly because she absolutely  _ made  _ family reunions, and at Christmas, she’d bring the best gifts: exotic souvenirs and exciting tales of everything she did on her most recent trips. From whale-watching to climbing a mountain, it seemed there was nothing she and her husband hadn’t done.

All the grandnieces and nephews gathered around to listen to these stories, even the ones they’d heard before. It had been a tradition for as long as Diana had been traveling, which had been always. Harlow remembered being utterly enchanted by the different cultures she’d experienced. Since Harlow first comprehended the enriching tales, she’d wanted to travel, and maybe she would when she went to college at the end of the summer.

For now, halfway across the country was enough for her, and in a few months, she’d be enjoying the sunny beaches of California as she went into her first semester of college. 

Her mother  _ tsked _ , referring to the wrapped package decorated with little golden stars and faded graduation caps. “Aren’t you going to open that? It’s been a week since you graduated.” 

Harlow reflexively brought the gift closer to her midsection, shaking her head sadly and looking away from her mother’s probing gaze as she tried to blink back tears. “I… I’m not ready…”

Wendy Grisco sighed in understanding, “But aren’t you even a little curious as to what she sent you. You were so excited to open it when it came in the mail… I just thought…” She turned back to the road when Harlow finally made eye-contact, grief etched into her expression. Diana had sent her the gift the day before she died, and Harlow had received it a few hours prior to finding out about her passing. She’d planned to open it when she saw her at the beginning of the summer, a sentiment now permanently stolen from her.

Now, Harlow wanted to hide it in the secret compartment underneath the floorboards of the guest room across the hall from Diana’s bedroom. The older woman had shown it to her many years previously during one of the family reunions, ushering her up the stairs and away from prying eyes. 

No one really thought much of it. Harlow had always been Diana’s favorite grand-niece, and the others figured it was because her husband had died so close to Harlow’s birth, and so she wanted to remain close.

It had seemed like magic when she’d pulled the board aside and gave Harlow, who’d been in her early teens, a glimpse inside the repurposed Prohibition-era liquor cabinet.

Inside, there had been letters from when Diana and her husband had started dating, as well as old jewelry from her grandmother, postcards, and newspaper clippings of large events. It was a time capsule, and Harlow was glad to know about it. She’d now even obtained a few of them from their exchange of letters.

Until she felt ready, no place seemed better to hide the gift away than there.

“...It’s kind of heavy, whatever it is…” Harlow added to diffuse the silence, her face blank and her tone numb. Looking outside once more, she noticed that they’d come to another stop.

People wandered along the sidewalks, clutching their shopping bags full of souvenirs and adjusting their oversized sunglasses atop big sun hats. Big colorful signs decorated the large glass shop windows, accentuating the town’s age and novelties. An old penny-arcade had been turned into a museum, and the wait line led out the door and two shops down the street. An ice cream vendor had seized the opportunity to pedal down the line, taking money from the splurging vacationers baking in the hot sun rather than underneath the colorful striped awnings.

This was evidently the “tourist trap” area of Port Charlemagne’s Main Street. Harlow shrank back into her seat and pouted, pointlessly hoping she wouldn’t be dealing with such swarms of people too often during her stay.

Apparently, something had gone wrong with the paperwork for Diana’s house, whether it went missing, was somewhere in Diana’s messy file cabinets, or was never written up in the first place. The house had been around before any regulations had been established, and had only been renovated periodically and on a piece-by-piece basis. Also, her will had been vague on what was to happen to the old home, at least as far as old debts, assets, and the decided heir. 

It seemed like it would be months before anything was officially decided, which was fine with the remaining Griscos. They didn’t mind the wait, and they also didn’t mind when Harlow asked her grandfather and great-uncle if she could live in Diana’s old house until she went to college in the fall. Of course, they’d said that she could, knowing full well how close Harlow had been to Diana. They, too, liked Harlow and thought their late-sister’s home would be safe with her.

Her parents, on the other hand, weren’t too keen on the idea of Harlow living alone in the house where her great-aunt was brutally murdered. So, she pulled the “legal adult” card, saying that she was old enough to do what she wanted and live in the house she was already allowed to live in. Harlow could tell the overrule stung them both, but they knew how she’d felt living in her hometown for the last eight months. Even they had to admit that a change of scenery would more than likely be beneficial for her.

“I think we’re here,” Harlow’s father pulled jerkily into the familiar driveway of 1366 Tern Street.

Harlow spread her arms out to prevent her luggage from flying into the front seats as the momentum caused a dangerous lurch in a few of the “load-bearing” bags. She didn’t retract her limbs until the car was completely stopped. 

Eventually, after a few moments, Harlow exited the car, cradling her graduation present in her arms like a security blanket and feeling awkward as she noticed a few neighbors lurking in their yards and windows.

She felt gross and stiff from the long car ride, and just wanted to sleep instead of confronting her neighbors’ curiosity and polite introductions. She attempted to smooth down the wrinkles of her dress, scratching at the places where the somewhat uncomfortable lacy material made her itch. Then, she fiddled with her hair, running her fingers through the short dark curls and feeling for the incessant flyaways that were a constant nuisance to her.

“Harlow?” Her mother reached for her arm to guide her into the house.

“Do you want us to stay and help you unpack?”

“Sure, I’d like that.” Harlow said, more for them than for herself.

Food was easy to come by, as there was a small grocery store a few blocks away, and online shopping could cover just about anything else Harlow didn’t already have. She had plenty of clothes, and plenty of movies to watch, books to read, and materials to draw with. Her laptop was packed away, complete with a charger and headphones.

Her parents didn’t necessarily need to help her, as nothing was that heavy. She’d been taught to pack light, as she would need to when the time came for her to move a second time in a few months. Unlike here, she wouldn’t have an entire house to herself, much less her own room.

Even so, Harlow didn’t plan on spending too much time in the lonely house. She wanted to explore Port Charlemagne and understand her great-aunt even more, now that she was gone. Also, she had a feeling there would be plenty of inspiring things around the bay that could make for some creative drawings or poems. Aside from that, she had her search to think about.

“Do you have your meds?” Harlow’s dad reminded her later, putting down the last cardboard box full of her stuff.

“Yeah, they’re in my bag,” she winced, thinking of the blue and white antidepressants lying seldomly-used at the bottom of her backpack. She’d been taking them for months now, but didn’t enjoy taking them. They made her feel wrong, as though her feelings of happiness were artificial, and so she had slowly begun taking them less often, hoping that being in a new place would lessen her need for them.

“Are you ready for your first shift at The Coast?” he teased, sensing her mood and moving in for a hug, “I knew the owner growing up, you know? Pete’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Harlow nodded, remembering that Diana had said something similar in her letters, “You said Aunt Diana used to babysit him.”

“Maybe some of your co-workers could show you around? You never know, maybe you might make some friends?” Harlow’s mother prompted, giving her a final goodbye hug, “We’ll call you soon!”

“Okay, bye,” Harlow waved, all smiles until the door shut behind her, the corners of her mouth turning down into an irritated grimace in the middle of the entryway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm not dead, but I will be busy with this project for most of the summer. I hope to update weekly, but there may be a few days extra in between, give or take. This novel will be another passion project of mine, and while it will be original work, there will be many influences of other fandoms in the characters and environments.  
> Once I finish it, I will go through and make edits for a 2nd draft, add illustrations, and make it available for purchase.
> 
> I hope you guys can enjoy it as much as I do, even if it is a first draft, and I look forward to posting regularly again.

**Chapter 2**

**(June 3nd, 2019)**

Harlow felt like she’d been swimming in dust-ridden boxes for the last forty-eight hours, enough that she couldn’t even count how many times she’d sneezed in each unused room. While the multiple walks down memory lane were somewhat enjoyable, the search for anything useful to her quest would have been much more bearable if she had any idea what to look for.

Taking a break from the chaos of the guest room-turned storage room, the young adult walked down the hall, brushing her sock-clad feet along the thick rug in the same way she did when she was a kid. A small amount of static surely burrowed itself inside her, only prompted to spark when she next touched something conductive. This time, the doorknob made her fingers jump a bit at the slight sting.

The sight that greeted her was nothing less than a mesh of old, dusty knick-knacks and new, vibrant mementos. A vintage record player sat beside a small bluetooth speaker, an antique typewriter sat next to Harlow’s laptop on an worn wooden desk, and a candlestick rested next to her LED flashlight. As her tired feet brought her over to the quilt-covered bed, she wondered what Diana would have thought about the obvious contrasts of technology over the long decades, how it felt to live through them. Now, the teen supposed she would never know.

Sleep had eluded Harlow for most of the previous night, her combined paranoia and guilt over not making any progress in her search and settlement into 1366 Tern Street pushing her to keep her eyes open and her mind restless. It wasn’t until sometime after three in the morning that her eyelids must have drooped with exhaustion, falling closed until the sun’s late-morning rays crept across the room to shine on her face from the cracks in the blinds.

Flopping down on the bed, uncaring for any crushed drawings or letters, she let out a huff of frustration. Harlow thought the subject of her search, the murderer’s  _ motive _ , would become much more clear once she arrived at Diana’s house, but absolutely nothing popped out at her. Most of the boxes were filled with family heirlooms or items relating to family gatherings, like old tapes or metal sleds, mementos from Christmases long before her parents even met. The other boxes held souvenirs from Diana and her husband’s vacations, what felt like endless amounts of useless papers from Diana’s fifty-some years working at a printing company, and clothing that looked like it went out of fashion before she began that same job. It was beyond Harlow’s speculation as to why Diana held onto so much for so long. Nothing seemed to have anything less than a quarter-inch of dust on it, at least not the things that hadn’t been disturbed during the break-in.

However, it seemed that everything had been disturbed in some shape or form, nothing holding any more value from the next thing. The teen winced, coming to the thought that Diana’s secret hoarding tendencies were just as frustrating for her murderer as much as they were for Harlow herself. She hated the very thought of being able to relate to them, impulsively reaching for her graduation gift but then shaking off the near reflex. 

Looking to the slightly loose floorboard in the middle of the room, she examined the likelihood of anyone else realizing its true nature. It was just as worn and creaky as any of the other boards around it, and the space between them wasn’t anything noticeable. Even almost a hundred years after its probable creation, it still held up as a secret compartment.

_ Still _ , Harlow reasoned,  _ Putting a rug over it wouldn’t hurt anything. _ She tiredly got up, her knee cracking a bit on the first step as she moved back to the other room. There had been a rolled rug propped up near the door, and she wouldn’t have been able to forget its garish leopard print pattern even if she tried. At this point, she didn’t care if it would be an eyesore that matched nothing else in the room. All she wanted was to cover the floorboard.

After setting it down and brushing off the dust that stubbornly lingered behind, Harlow went back to her bed but stopped short, realizing that she  _ had,  _ in fact, crumpled a few of her drawings when she flopped down onto it. Another frustrated huff left her tight lips, coming out as a frustrated raspberry instead of something more dignified. Even so, it still sounded forlorn.

Gathering up the handful of crumpled papers, she sat back down and set to correcting their creases back to their normal, smooth textures. The first was a series of nine sketched expressions from happy to sad with varying expressions in between. It had been an exercise, nothing more. Meanwhile, the second was a depiction of trees near a pond with sun shining through their branches and onto the reflective water below. Despite her inner feelings and to her own surprise, she was able to make something that felt peaceful. She didn’t know she had it in her anymore. However, she supposed it didn’t matter now that it had taken damage from what she guessed was her right shoulder. Fixing the creases and smudging the drawing didn’t do it any favors either.

Feeling a bit more regretful, she went through the remaining three drawings with a bit more care. Fortunately, they weren’t as crumpled, but their contents made her stop short. They were concept art of people, but not the kind she wanted to be thinking about at the moment. Their sketchy, beady eyes peered at her from beneath inconspicuous hats and eerily devilish brows. Unbalanced and gritty, they clutched their weapons of choice and calculated their undecided targets. 

These villains, while not real murderers, were meant to be represented as such. One of them held a bleeding knife, and looking at it now made her sick. Flipping the offensive drawing over, she looked at a zombie with a hunting rifle clutched in its decomposing hand. While much gorier than the previous piece, it was much easier on her mind. 

Likewise, the last drawing was a werewolf in the middle stage of transforming. Patches of fur burst from his layman’s clothes, sudden and destructive. Human teeth grew into canine fangs. His eyes turned narrow with contracted pupils and his lower half had large, clawed feet and inhuman legs. Clearly, the beastial and human sides of the man were struggling for dominance and Harlow found it so compelling that she sent a copy of it to Diana, along with a poem she’d written about the follies of technology on mental health that used wolves as metaphors for the latter. She thought it was rather inspiring, the best poem she’d ever written, in fact.

When the old woman wrote back, she mentioned that it reminded her of someone. Harlow had never gotten to hear who that person was, as they had only been mentioned in Diana’s final letter to her.

She froze, wondering if this mystery person was the one who killed Diana.  _ Maybe she invited them over and then they killed her. They must have done it. Why else would she compare them to a werewolf, a creature that betrays man and animal by being something in between? _

Harlow reached for the drawing of the blank-faced slasher and flipped it back over. His face held a disturbing flat affect with no light in his eyes.  _ This is what they likely looked like: no emotion, no conscience, no nothing… Nothing but desperate, calculated rage behind a blank-faced mask. Or would they be laughing as though it were some cruel joke? _ She thought with an exhausted imagination as she crumpled the drawing between her fists and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket, the thoughts coming unbidden like a leaky faucet.

At this point, she didn’t know what she’d do when she found Diana’s murderer. If they were as big and intimidating as the figure she’d drawn was, strong shoulders and all, she knew her instincts and reflexes would push her to run and hide. Harlow hated the idea, knowing how much she owed it to Diana to bring them to justice, but she knew she had to be realistic about her chances of confronting them directly. It would be infinitely safer to discover their treachery from a distance before phoning the police, people who would have much better chances of apprehending them than she would.

Harlow got up from her bed a second time, feeling the urge to get away from the art and poetry that used to make her happy. Now, whenever she looked at them, she couldn’t help but think of her deceased great-aunt, and the thought of drawing or writing more left a hollow feeling in her gut, like she’d feel  _ guilty _ for indulging in her hobbies when Diana still needed avenging.

Her feet brought her downstairs, leading down the hall and down the stairs to the foyer. Ahead of her, she had two paths: left to the kitchen, or right to the office. Harlow knew Diana had been dragged from the office to the kitchen. She’d been found there sitting in her office chair like the murderer had been too weak to carry her frail old body across the house. It didn’t make sense.  _ The murder could’ve happened in the kitchen unless… there was something in the office that they didn’t want others to notice if the room became a crime scene! _ With a new lead, Harlow strode quickly towards the office before skidding towards a stop once more.

On the long hallway wall leading to the office, there were five, newly-hung photographed group portraits. Belatedly, Harlow remembered Diana mentioning them as an afterthought in the same letter she mentioned the person who was similar to her werewolf drawing. Apparently, she’d gotten sick of the miscellaneous photos of places she’d visited and instead wanted to blow up some souvenir photos she’d gotten while visiting England. They had “personality,” or so she’d said in her description of them, evidently finding “kindred spirits” in a way that Harlow still didn’t quite understand. 

Now, they were easily twenty by thirty with everyone peering at her from their respective places. As Harlow walked past each one, she realized she knew no one in them. There were men, women, children, people in casual clothing, and people in formal wear. They didn’t seem to be connected by race, ethnicity, or even state. It was baffling that Diana was able to relate to each of them.

The first group portrait was solely in black and white, depicting what looked like four prohibition-era gangsters playing a game of cards. Donned in garish pinstripe suits combined with striped socks and uneven bowties, they looked towards the camera with varying degrees of humor, as though the photographer was making a joke. However, one of them was entirely straight-faced while the similar-looking man next to him was grinning widely, likely his twin brother given how they looked and sat together. Another was smoking, a lazy, secretive smile on his aging face as he showed the camera four aces. Lastly, the man on the far right had a shy yet contented expression on his face, seemingly happy to just be included in the game.

Tommy guns and half-empty bottles of liquor sat at their feet, and the haze of the smoke hovering around them made their eyes glow with expressions that seemed more mirthful the longer she looked at them. They seemed relaxed, like lazy cats who have eaten their fill of fluttering canaries but were no less predatory than when they were hungry.

Three people looked back at her from the next photo, the setting clearly showing a film studio of some sort, given their costumes and the general artificiality of the objects around them. A young Asian woman wore a scandalously short, flashy kimono while a taller, skinnier man beside her wore a garish plaid suit and fedora, both strange in their own contexts. However, the real oddity was the stern-faced man who looked like he was in the process of putting on a costume for some kind of reptilian creature. He stood off to the side, his arms blurring as he fiddled with his artificial lizard feet. Harlow shook her head, turning to the next photo.

This time, the portrait was actually in color, showing off the yellow-tinted hues of old polaroids. In this photo, the setting was some sort of rustic bar. A waitress stood next to an animatronic puma in a similar uniform, showing off its newness like a gameshow assistant and making it the focus of the frame. Others stood around them, some holding beer bottles and others wrapping their arms around each other. 

Out of the small crowd, an aging, solid man stood out to her from the shadows. He was scarred, burns bisecting his scowling face and curling around his right arm. His red hair was combed over to one side, the rest almost non-existent from his ex-army undercut. To Harlow’s utter surprise, a white wolf sat at his side, looking more like a large dog than a wild animal. Both watched the people in the center of the photo, or more specifically, the two brown-haired men happily standing near two police officers. Perhaps the red-haired man was who Diana was referring to in her letter. He seemed compelling, protective, and she wondered if her great-aunt would have even known him. 

A jarring beeping from her phone made her entire nervous system jump from the surprise. With shaky hands, she fished her phone out of her shorts’ pocket and turned the escalating noise off with a swipe of her thumb. Checking the time, Harlow winced, a nervous feeling beginning to build up in her gut. She had to be at her first shift of work in forty-five minutes.

★★★

All in all, her first shift at “The Coast Is Clear” came and went with mixed feelings. Harlow suspected the name of the bar itself was a pun, considering the Prohibition history prevalent in the town’s tourism.

The exterior of the building sat right on the edge of Hallowind’s Landing, Port Charlemagne’s Harbor and main source of income since its inception nearly two-hundred-fifty years ago. She was surprised it hadn’t fallen into the ocean after at least a hundred years of being in business. Still, it teetered on the edge of the boardwalk with large wooden beams supporting it on the water. 

From what she gathered on the bar’s website, it had first been established for the fishermen and ferry boat captains who worked long hours. However, in the mid-1920s, the Hallowind Harbor Gang had rolled into town and set up shop in the eastern warehouses, and consequently the bar that looked over that area. There wasn’t much else of note in what Harlow read, other than it had changed its name to accommodate the tourists that now flocked to the place and pushed its original clientele to other nearby bars along the boardwalk. Either way, it explained the clashing nautical and 1920s prohibition themes present.

Upon walking inside, Harlow noticed that the inside of the small establishment seemed to be much like the outside. Funnily enough, she didn’t think there was one square inch of wall that wasn’t dedicated to either antique nautical memorabilia or photographs of fedora-wearing gang members sitting in the exact same beat-up booths and worn barstools. 

In her opinion, the seats seemed like they’d almost hurt to sit on. Old screws threatened to tear through the worn leather and the wooden barstool legs threatened to rot right through the countless coats of varnish and stain, the only things keeping them together; the light fixtures looked like they hadn’t changed since before the 1920s, shining faded yellow tints into the shaded atmosphere of the bar; and a decades-old cigarette smell had seeped into the booths, seemingly having no intention of going anywhere. Harlow’s nose wrinkled at both the smell and the reminder of the friendships she lost. Still, despite their tattered appearances, there was no question that the tables and seating held sentimental value to locals and tourists alike. They were definitely well-loved, and she begrudgingly admired that.

Her new boss, a Mr. Pete Holloway, seemed nice despite his initial burly appearance. He’d come right out of his office, full of lively greetings and eager tones like a “cool” uncle that seemed to relate more to his nieces and nephews instead of his siblings. At the same time; however, he looked as though he had just passed fifty, and his voice seemed caught between two accents like he’d been faking a pirate voice since he owned the bar, “a good twenty years or so,” he’d said when she asked. Harlow raised a curious eyebrow when he all but confirmed as much during their brief “interview.”

“I’m sorry to hear about Diana. She was like an aunt to me. I used to chase yer dad and uncles down by Devil’s Cove… Ah, we were a bunch of scallywags if I ever knew ‘em. ‘Causin’ a ruckus for the fishermen down by Hallowind’s Landing,” Pete smiled wistfully at the flood of memories, tugging at the ends of his moustache in what Harlow could tell was a certain tic, as he’d been doing it every few minutes, “Yer great-aunt would always yank us from the sea, even if she had to wade in after us and get her dresses wet.”

Harlow weakly returned Pete’s smile, her mind still caught on the wolf man in the portrait. Pete looked a bit like him, having similar broad shoulders and a muscular frame despite most of it being covered by his casual suit coat and dress shirt. Although, unlike the red-haired man’s ex-army undercut, her new boss had unruly salt-and-pepper mid-length curls, “That sounds like her,” she contributed quietly, realizing that he was contemplating her silence, “Aunt Diana wasn’t afraid of anything, much less a little salt water.”

“That she wasn’t,” Pete agreed, and moved to say more but a foghorn blared in the distance, sending him into an uneasy pause.

His icy blue eyes widened, darting around the room as though looking for a threat. Harlow noticed his muscles tense up and his hands ball into fists, growing more tense with each horn blast. She could almost hear his jaw clench and teeth grind against each other. Then, he closed his eyes and took three good, deep breaths, his thick brows lowering to shield his eyelids. 

Harlow knew the technique, having done it herself more than a few times in the last eight months. Carefully, she reached over and awkwardly took his weathered, calloused hand. After a moment, Pete suddenly exhaled through his nose, the sound holding just a bit more humor than embarrassment. He shook off whatever memory had ensnared him, shifting his head rapidly like a wet dog before looking to her.

“My apologies, lass… I should be the one comforting ye, but alas… Iraq is still messin’ with this ole’ seadog,” Pete pointed to his head and made a twisting motion with his finger, digging it into his temple, “But don’t you worry about me! We best be worrying about you.”

With a grin, he turned back to his desk, bent down behind it and grabbed a plastic-wrapped parcel before swinging back up and depositing it in her waiting arms. Harlow looked down at it, realizing that it was clothing. 

“Well then, here ye go, Harlow,” the greying, bearded man nodded, handing her the stack of clothes that were to be her two uniforms for the summer, “I hope the company sent the sizes you asked for… Ye can go change in the ladies’ room and report to the front desk. I’ll then introduce ye to the rest of the crew.”

Harlow nodded, clutching her new uniforms to her chest and walking out the door, only to nearly bump into another employee on her way out. The tall red-haired stranger squawked and nearly dropped the tray of drinks he was carrying to another table, “Hey, watch it!”

“Ah! I’m sorry,” she squeaked and rushed to the bathroom across the bar, careful to not barrel over any of her new co-workers. When she was crammed into a stall, she quickly unfurled the plastic and pulled out one of the uniforms, careful to not drop anything into the toilet as she did so. 

The uniform was  _ interesting _ . There was a set of dark pinstripe slacks; a white, short-sleeved dress shirt; a bright red vest patterned with tommy guns and anchors on the back; and the oddest ocean-blue clip-on bowtie she’d ever seen. Looking at the last item, she realized where she’d seen something similar, and it was hanging up in Diana’s hallway.

Reminding herself to take a longer look at the gangster portrait, she dressed quickly and left the stall, taking her other clothing and placing them into her bag. Upon exiting the stall, she was met with a similarly-dressed girl with bleach-blonde hair.

She didn’t look much older than Harlow, if at all, but she seemed to hide much of her youth behind copious amounts of makeup. Even now, she was applying more lipstick to her already crimson mouth, “‘Took you long enough,” she chewed a piece of gum and blew a large bubble as Harlow came closer. Her name tag read “Kaia.”

Kaia beckoned with her finger and Harlow followed her out, immediately disliking her behavior, “Found her, Mr. Holloway,” she drawled at their boss as he ushered the rest of their team into the kitchen.

Harlow looked around, taking note of the stove and fryer placements as well as the freezer and sinks that likely ran with a salt water tap. Then, she turned to Pete, Kaia, and the four other employees in the room. The former nodded, motioning to her, “This is Harlow, and she’s a bit of a family friend. She’ll be with us for the summer, so please make her feel welcome. Harlow, this is one of the mid-day shift groups.”

The five young-adults smiled and nodded in unison, looking to Harlow with contradicting, bored eyes. Still, Pete introduced them all with a grin, starting with Kaia, “This is Kaia, and she’s our hostess for this shift. We aren’t normally so busy as to require another to assist, but that may sometimes fall to you, Harlow.”

Harlow nodded, quickly avoiding Kaia’s beady eyes in favor of looking at the next person Pete was introducing, “This is Deaton, and he’s this shift’s cook. Ye’ll never find better black pepper fries in all of Port Charlemagne,” Pete praised the young, dark-skinned man with a clap on the back. Deaton smiled in return, ruffling his afro with his left hand, “Cool,” he voiced vaguely in her direction.

The next girl was clearly a bit older than the rest, perhaps just out of college or in her last years of it. She wore her chestnut hair in a tight bun and had dark bags under her disdainful eyes. In her hand, she had a thermos, likely containing coffee that was so potent it would kill a lesser person.  _ Definitely writing her thesis _ , Harlow mused silently, remembering her cousins’ struggles with their own.

“Madeline is our bartender, as she is the only one of you who has the license for it,” Pete nodded at Madeline and she shrugged, her attempted smile looking more like a grimace instead of a grin.

“Hi,” she greeted quietly with an unenthusiastic wave and began rubbing her temple, as though the very effort of being polite to her gave Madeline a headache.

Pete noticed her discomfort and shook it off, gesturing to a small gangly kid that looked to be a sophomore in high school. His short, dark curls made him look younger than he likely was, and his shaven face and large glasses emphasized his wide blue eyes. He curled into himself when his name was mentioned, looking anywhere but at Harlow.

“This is Waylon, my nephew. He assists Deaton in the kitchen here, mainly washing dishes, but definitely knows his way around a fryer,” he chuckled, ruffling the boy’s now similar dark curls until he was beet red from the embarrassment.

Waylon said nothing, merely nodding his head as he fought to get rid of his blush. He stared at his shoes for a moment before shyly looking at her. Upon realizing that she was still staring, he quickly looked away and the blush resurfaced.

Pete didn’t seem to notice and instead pointed at the smirking red-haired man leaning nonchalantly against the freezer door, “Last, but not least, Walter. He is our other waiter, and will teach you the ins and outs of The Coast Is Clear. Be that as it may, he can be a bit of a hornswoggler when he wants to be, so take him with a bit of salt,” he raised a bushy eyebrow at the lean yet somewhat muscular boy.

Harlow mimicked his expression, assuming ‘hornswoggler’ meant “jerk” or something similar but not quite as PG. Although, she seemed to have gotten the right idea because Walter immediately put his hand on his chest as though Pete’s words actually wounded him. He blinked innocently as he chuckled, “A  _ hornswoggler _ ? Me? I would never—”

“Then ye can show Harlow the ropes without causin’ any problems. Savvy?” Pete crossed his arms like a concerned father and Harlow wondered what kind of problems he was referring to. A bit of panic lurched in her gut as he, Kaia, and Madeline left the room to return to their stations.

“What are you waiting for? Just because you’re new doesn’t mean I’m going to roll out the red carpet,” Walter grumbled and led her out of the kitchen, giving her a look that gave her the impression she’d inconvenienced him.

“Do we have one of those?” Harlow inquired with a deadpan expression, immediately regretting her words when Walter turned around and smirked a bit at her.

“Hn, let’s hope you can wait tables better than you make jokes.”

Offended, Harlow took the tray the older freckled boy handed to her and followed him to the window where Deaton had placed some appetisers, hoping that the feeling of being a fish out of water would fade in the coming days.

Realistically, she knew why she felt alone in the group of standoffish co-workers. She was new, and they seemed to be a well-knit group of young adults who likely didn’t feel compelled to alter what they already had together. As a new employee, they didn’t know her, much like she didn’t understand them. Each was unpredictable to the other. 

More importantly, however, she was also from halfway across the state while this group was likely all locals. Her mind swam with the possibility of taking the job one of their friends might have sought after, only for it to instead be yanked from their fingertips, only for Pete to hand it over to her as a personal favor to Diana.

By the time her shift ended, and she’d said her goodbyes to her aloof co-workers, she began her trek back to Diana’s house. The sun was beginning to set, painting the glass windows of The Coast in shimmering oranges and yellows. Seagulls called overhead, looking for scraps along the beach. 

Waves crashed against the shore, and Harlow longed to dip her toes in the sand, but knew it wasn’t entirely safe for her to do so. This place was still so foreign to her even though she’d been there many times as a kid, the years dragging on as her family gradually poured out of Port Charlemagne and sought out other parts of the United States. Diana had been the only one left, anchored to the house her family had lived in for generations. 

Her father had said that the Griscos were wanderers, always seeking new places and experiences. Those who didn’t travel often moved houses every decade or so.

Harlow adjusted her bag, looking out at the ocean until it disappeared from view. Before long, 1366 Tern Street came into view, caught in the sun’s fading rays.  _ Who would have thought a Grisco would return home? _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've got another one for you. This chapter isn't very exciting, but it does introduce some new characters. The next chapter is where things get really interesting, I promise! Much like Wingardium Leviosa, I had to include these few setup chapters before really starting the story. 
> 
> I'm greatful for those of you who have taken a glance at this work in the last few days. Thank you! :D

**June 3rd, 2019**

Harlow grimaced, walking past yet another couple who were in the process of staring out at the ocean, no space between their bodies with their arms wrapped around each other as though they could be ripped apart at a moment’s notice. The more she noticed these people, the more she began to slowly understand the disdain the locals seemed to hold for tourists. She knew that she’d come to hate walking to and from work while dodging groups of people who seemed trapped in their own little lovesick worlds, uncaring for those who made a living so they could enjoy the coastal views, exciting prohibition history, and nautical aesthetics. Hell, she’d nearly bumped into three couples and two groups of friends when she  _ was _ paying attention to where she was going and not equally distracted by the admittedly majestic seascape.

A part of her was envious, not that she was proud to admit it, but looking at how much fun the tourists seemed to be having made her feel  _ lonely _ . Harlow tugged her jean jacket tighter over her work clothes, loosening the strange bowtie as she went. While she shared the same feelings of wanderlust and excitement at being in Port Charlemagne, building up friendships that would only exist for three months before they became a slowly disconnecting, long-distance parody of a close friendship was not something she was interested in at the moment. Mostly, she didn’t want to become invested in something so impermanent, knowing it would end in platonic heartbreak. 

Harlow had just gotten past the small metal gate in front of Diana’s house when she noticed a parcel wrapped in tin foil sitting outside on the front stoop. It stood out against the cool shadows, reflecting the last red and orange rays of the evening as the sun finally ducked below the sea. Cautiously, she crept closer to it, noticing that it seemed to be food, of all things. A few delicate lines of script were penned out on a notecard, the piece of paper taped to the tinfoil so it wouldn’t be blown away by the salty breeze.

Crouching down, Harlow picked up the parcel and immediately noticed its warmth, as though someone had only recently left it where she found it. Curious, she peeled back a bit of the tinfoil and noticed a locationally-appropriate tuna casserole. It smelled pretty good, and she could see diced carrots, onions, and peas poking out from under a generously dense layer of potato chips.  _ Whoever made this clearly spent time on it, _ Harlow mused, gently picking a piece of chip off with her fingers and popping it in her mouth.

Chewing slowly and enjoying the change of flavor, she covered the casserole back up and plucked the note from the tinfoil.

_ Miss Grisco, _

_ Unfortunately, it has been some time since I’ve cooked anything myself. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this casserole. I would have given it to you in person, but a personal matter came up. Feel free to return the glass pan to 1365 Tern St. _

_ Welcome back to Port Charlemagne, _

_ D. Jamison _

Harlow shrugged at the note, looking over her shoulder and realizing 1365 was right across the street from Diana’s house. Like hers, Jamison’s house seemed to be equally immaculate, with no uncut blades of grass and no chipped paint on the siding. However, heavy black curtains shaded every window, an odd choice to say the least. _Perhaps_ _they’re sensitive to light?_ She pondered, turning around to head inside her own abode.

The teen opened the door and turned on the porch light from inside, taking in the silent house with an exhausted breath. With as little sleep she’d been getting lately, Harlow felt like it was finally starting to catch up to her. It wasn’t that she was worried about sleeping in Diana’s house, but soon she would likely be able to sleep through a hurricane and not notice. Her brain was bound to slow down at some point, which she knew wouldn’t help her at all in her investigation. She took her shoes off, silently lamenting about the new grease stains speckled on the black faux leather as she took the casserole into the kitchen and set it in the fridge.

Not a second later, the doorbell rang its regal chime throughout the foyer, vibrating down the empty halls and echoing back to Harlow. It was an almost archaic sound, intrusive in its bluntness and predatory in its domineering bell tones. In fact, it sounded like the typical death knell sound effect used in movies she’d seen.

Wincing, Harlow shrugged off her jacket and deposited it on the banister leading upstairs, walking back towards the door. She gripped the shiny brass knob and turned it, opening the door slightly and peering out from the crack.

A middle-aged woman had her hand poised near the doorbell while the other protectively held yet another parcel wrapped in tin foil, her carefree yet eager smile shining behind light pink lips. Short, chestnut hair grew brighter in the porch light while equally brown eyes gleamed curiously at her. Worn jeans hugged her full hips and she had what Harlow swore was a splotch of green paint on her simple pink blouse. She looked like a mom, through and through.

“Hello!” the woman grinned and waved brightly and Harlow shied away from her eager behavior, using the doorframe as a shield.

“Hi,” she replied awkwardly, opening the door further as she became more sure that she wasn’t in any real danger.

“My name is Rita McGreggor,” she gestured to herself before pointing to Harlow’s left, presumably drawing attention to the house on the other side of the large wooden fence separating its yard from hers, “and I live in that house right over there.”

“Right,” Harlow nodded and blinked slowly, suddenly feeling like a child who needed everything pointed out to them and immediately not liking it. It was like being with her parents again. “I’m Harlow Grisco. Diana was my great-aunt, and I’m going to be living here for the summer,” she pointed down, tapping her foot on the chipped door frame for emphasis as she rattled off the information she’d mentally prepared for this situation.

“Oh, sorry!” Rita gaped, “Mom-brain, y’know? I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but I have a few little ones at home, and you know how that is— Er, no I suppose you wouldn’t,” she floundered at Harlow’s confused expression, trying to salvage their nearly one-sided conversation. Something else seemed to click in her brain, judging by the way her pale green eyes widened considerably, “Oh shoot! It’s so late, I should have waited until tomorrow—”

Harlow smiled despite herself, “It’s alright. Just past eight-fifteen isn’t super late for me. I’m usually a bit of a night owl, myself.”

Rita shook her head, smiling again and looking less panicked, “I used to be the same way, but then I had my kids. Now I’m lucky if I can sleep until seven…” she chuckled, “So this is your first time living on your own?”

“Yep.”

“That’s exciting, though! Isn’t it?”

“I’d like to think so,” Harlow shook her head in agreement, hoping she wasn’t coming off as too rude.

Rita laughed, “Well, in any case, I’ve brought you something to start off your stay here,” she handed Harlow the tinfoil-covered parcel, “It’s a simple green-bean casserole… I hope it’s alright. My children don’t really like their greens, but they do like this. I think the tater tots are the only reason my Hudson tolerates eating it. He can be very picky—”

“It’s fine,” Harlow cut her off, reaching for the warm glass pan with a grin plastered on her face, “My mom made this all the time for me at home. Thank you.” Wendy Grisco was a lackluster chef and had never done such a thing, but Rita didn’t need to know that.

“You’re very welcome, Harlow,” the older woman nodded, slowly walking backwards, “I have to get back to my kids, but maybe later this week you could come to dinner and meet them and my husband, Hugh.”

“Uhh… Sure, maybe. I just started my job today, so I’ll have to see what shifts I end up taking going forward. I’ll have to get back to you on coming over for dinner,” Harlow nodded, slowly backing through the doorway and slowly easing the door closed as their goodbyes became just as awkward as their greetings.

“Alright! I’m home most days, so feel free to just pop over,” Rita pointed over to her house once more, smiling with her teeth straight and nails painted cheaply. Then, a flash of remembrance crossed her face and she stepped back towards the door, “Oh wait! I meant to ask… Did you see Danny come over?”

Harlow paused, hoping her look of confusion wasn’t too obvious, “Danny?”

“He’s our neighbor across the street, Daniel Jamison. My daughter, Mavis, said she saw him walking over just a few minutes ago. Then, she saw you coming up the road and let me know so I could meet you properly. So, I guess we both missed him…”

“I guess so,” Harlow shrugged, “He left me a tuna casserole, but he wrote a note saying something came up and he couldn’t give it to me himself.”

“Oh,” Rita nodded, “I wouldn’t know anything about that, but I do know that he doesn’t like being outside much… Still, he’s a handsome young man and a great conversationalist. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon,” she waved off her own concerns, walking down the steps.

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Rita. See you later,” Harlow waved as she closed the door, bracing herself against it once she was once again encapsulated in the comforting isolation of her great-aunt’s house. Sleep was the only thing on her mind for the rest of the night.

**June 4th, 2019**

The midday sun lit up the parlor, accentuating the beautiful shades of blue within every aspect of the furniture. Greens and purples were splashed throughout for variety’s sake, but Diana had always leaned towards blue because it felt the most “in-tune” with the harbor town outside the walls and Harlow agreed, knowing that blue was a relaxing color and befitting a parlor room.

Beautiful photos decorated the fireplace mantel, showing off a variety of locations in monochrome clarity. London, Paris, Dubai, Tokyo, and even a few Harlow couldn’t name off the top of her head. A mirror hung above them, while the vacant firebox lay waiting to be fed with precious timber. Harlow figured that she wouldn’t need the latter at all during her stay.

A large shelf beside the fireplace held more of the nautically-aesthetic travel knick-knacks along with a small collection of Diana’s favorite tomes. Below these, Harlow had humbly dedicated some space just above the ornately-carpeted floor for her own books. It was of little consequence to her that she had to crouch down each time she wanted to pick up a new novel to read.

Now, sitting in one of the old and worn armchairs, Harlow felt the relaxing atmosphere portrayed by the colors and general simplicity of the room, curled into her seat as much as she was. Because of the immense size of the book she was currently occupied with, the independent teen had to rest it on her folded legs, curling herself over it in an almost possessive position.

Harlow never read a book twice unless she had to, simply because it never felt the same after reading each plot twist or other surprise.  _ What’s the point of reading it again when you already know what happens?  _ This was a common discussion she had with people who would try to extend her stance to movies and she would have to correct them by saying that she could still enjoy the cinematography and visual effects after multiple views. It was different.

She scratched her nose distractedly as she continued reading. While the printed pages carried an equally-relaxing scent, it was drowned out by the upholstery she sat on and its potent fragrance: a combination of faded cigarette smoke and potpourri. Evidently, this had been her great-uncle’s chair. Diana never smoked a day in her life, or so she’d claimed. One would think after nearly two decades, the smell would have gradually vanished, but it hadn’t.

A cool ocean breeze swept through the large room from the open window to Harlow’s right, shaking up the scents and the remaining particles of dust she hadn’t been able to reach with her cleaning supplies. The unavoidable reflex rose up inside her and she jerked her head away from the ruffling pages, sneezing loudly in the nearly-silent room. The small fan sitting on the floor to provide her with some air-conditioning did nothing to help, its oscillation only blowing the offending particles back into her stricken face. The buzzing cicadas outside seemed to laugh at her dilema. 

After her first night of getting decent sleep since she arrived in Port Charlemagne, she’d decided to indulge herself in a bit of escapism. It wouldn’t be for long, she knew, but she hypothesized that spending a bit of time doing something other than working or searching through Diana’s endless piles of junk might yield a new heading to her quest. Binge-reading wasn’t something she did, her eyes becoming tired after reading more than twenty pages in one sitting, so she knew this activity would not distract her further than it was meant to.

Harlow wiped her dry nose on her sleeve, thankful that the action wasn’t noticeable on the fabric. The thick adventure novel called to her once more, and she heeded it, shaking her head and starting the page over again. Her eyes danced quickly across the text, translating it into an intricate world within her mind’s eye. It was exciting, crafted excellently behind detail and syntax, and she could feel every texture, see every sight, and hear every tone of dialogue from the bland black font that filled the pages. She knew she would never experience it the same way again, so she wished to enjoy it while she could.

The story was about a man searching for his daughter in a Victorian-styled Hell after she’d been kidnapped by a demon. It was a typical “golden fleece” type of story with the main character going on an adventure, meeting new people, discovering something about themselves, and vanquishing the evil character. 

Now, Harlow had just reached the part where the main character was confronting the demon and she knew the big plot twist, often her favorite part of any story, was coming in the next page or so. Restlessly, she shifted in her seat and lifted the book closer to her face, not wanting to miss any details.

The death knell chime rang throughout the house, making Harlow jump further than she’d admit to. Embarrassed, she got up from her sprawled position on the floor, lamenting the fact that she lost the page she’d been on. 

After the first few times she’d heard the doorbell, it had just become annoying. She eyed the path she’d tread each time the bell tolled. Her nose scrunched as an exasperated sigh left her lips.

“Again? This is the third time today,” she whined to the empty house, gripping the aged upholstery of the armchair she’d been sitting on and pulling herself into an upright stance.

Harlow swung her arms up over her head and slowly kicked her feet out, giving her limbs time to stretch from being in such a compressed position. She’d been sitting on her left leg, and it had become numb, leading her to have a bit of a limp as she wandered out into the dimly-lit hallway.

In an almost coincidental unspoken rule, every maintenance worker she’d spoken to that morning had waited exactly three days after her parents’ tiny car had rolled into the driveway of 1366 Tern Street. Upon her arrival after the funeral, she’d seen them peeking over the neatly trimmed hedges, mere silhouettes gone too fast before anything more was attributed through her watery eyes.

At the time, she’d been in a horrible mood, as anyone would be after a funeral unless the deceased was someone they hated. There was something about their hesitant glances that she couldn’t stand. She couldn’t tell if they were being distant out of respect for her grief, if they were lingering because they were curious about Diana’s passing, or if they didn’t know what else to do. Most likely, they were wondering if she was still going to pay them. Still, she supposed three days was long enough of a wait for them to approach her in any case.

The first person to approach her that day had been a sanitation worker asking if she was still going to need the trash and recycling picked up. Because she didn’t know what her grandfather and great-uncle had decided, she gave the man their phone numbers and told him to call them and ask because they legally owned Diana’s house.

Still reeling from the awkwardness and general incompetency on her part that had been revealed, she almost didn’t notice the bell ring a second time, almost an hour later. When she opened the door, there was a young man around her age. His skin was almost beet red and he scowled in a way that told her it was about as painful as it looked. Even though she didn’t point it out, he was still quite rude for the entirety of their short conversation. 

He asked if she wanted him to mow the lawn as he usually did for Diana and her neighbors, but Harlow decided to do it herself. The front lawn wasn’t huge, and the back was even less so. It would only take her an hour to do it, so why pay for someone else to do it when she could use the money herself, get outside for a bit, and get some exercise. Unfortunately, the other teen didn’t see it that way and was instead irritated at the loss of business. After he stomped away, she decided to calm herself down with a bit of reading.

Now, the hallway seemed to elongate as she trudged towards the door, but once she reached the foyer, the house seemed to shrink, making Harlow feel as though the door came to her rather than the other way around. Another bell tolled, and she gripped the knob, swinging the door open with a bit more force than necessary, partially hoping to catch the next neighbor mid-ring with their finger on the bell. It was the little things that made life fun, after all.

Sure enough, an elderly, dark-skinned woman had her hand poised near the doorbell while another protectively held a parcel wrapped in tin foil, just like her other two neighbors. However, whereas the other two seemed like new editions to the neighborhood, this woman seemed very familiar. From what Harlow could tell, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen years younger than Diana. She wracked her brain for any semblance of memory of her.

At this rate, Harlow wouldn’t have to cook for the next week if each visitor was going to bring her a pity casserole, not that she minded, of course. Food was food, misplaced as her neighbors’ ideas of her inability to cook seemed to be.

“Jesus, girl! Whatchu doin’ tryin’ to scare me like that?!” the woman’s wrinkled hand came up to cover the lavender blouse above her heart, a slight Southern drawl accenting her words.

Harlow blanched, hoping she wasn’t going to have a heart attack anytime soon, “Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve been getting a lot of maintenance workers today. They’re a bit…” she stopped herself there, not wanting to speak ill of people that the other woman might like.

“Lackin’?” her neighbor raised an eyebrow, quirking her wrinkled mouth into a wry smile, “You’re Diana’s niece alright. She couldn’t ever stand those boys pokin’ around her property. Neighborhood committee had to talk her into it after she couldn’t keep up with the lawn regulations… but I’ll bet you can!” She clapped Harlow on the shoulder with her hand.

“I,” Harlow began, “I am planning on mowing the lawn myself, yeah…” she paused, “I’m sorry. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve been here, but you seem familiar to me.”

“That’s alright! I remember seein’ you when you were about ‘yay high,” she brought her hand down to her hip, around three feet off the ground, “You were jus’ a little youngin’... My name’s Dorinda Duvall, but most call me ‘Dori’ these days.”

“Okay, Dori,” Harlow rolled the name around in her mind, still trying to recall meeting her before now, “How did you know my aunt?”

“Aw! Diana and I go way back,” Dorinda laughed, her bony shoulders shaking at the movement, “My late husband and I moved here from Louisiana in the late seventies to raise our own youngins. He would always work late, so we would go play bingo downtown, or stay at my house and quilt. More recently though, we went out for coffee every Sunday. She was so excited to have you here, and I’d wanted to meet you under different circumstances…” she trailed off, wiping a tear with her free hand. Harlow’s lip wavered and she nodded.

“Thank you. You sounded like a great friend,” Harlow replied, not knowing what else to say.

Dori nodded, recovering a bit before continuing. She handed Harlow the tin-wrapped pan, “I made my famous ‘fish chowder’ for you to start off your stay here. It was Diana’s favorite.”

Then, the old woman brought her other hand around and picked up a basket of rolls that Harlow didn’t even notice until now, “And I made some rolls for this food, and whatever Rita and Danny made up for you. I’ll bet they made you casseroles and didn’t include a side,” she reprimanded them exasperatedly, “Both of them are sweeter than honey, but Rita is so darn busy and I’ve never seen Danny so much as touch a pan since I’ve known ‘im.”

“That’s alright, Dori,” Harlow giggled at the fact that she nailed their neighbors to a ‘t,’ “Thank you for the food.”

Suddenly, a loud yowl pierced the air and Harlow jumped, nearly dropping the basket of rolls. Dorinda winced, shaking her head with a more irritated variant of her previous exasperation, “Ah, that’ll be Eddie asking for his lunch. I’d better get to feeding him before he rips up my curtains again…”

Harlow was amazed that a cat could be heard from next door, and the windows weren’t even open, “Of course! Thank you for the food, and thank you for talking to me about Diana. Not many people really knew her…”

Dorinda nodded, rubbing her withered hand against one of the wooden columns on the porch. A wistful look entered her eyes as she looked back at Harlow, “Your auntie was always travelin’... so I’d watch the house for her while she was away. In return, she’d always bring back somethin’ for us. One time, she brought back this wonderful chai tea, and ever since then, I’ve never ordered it from anywhere else. I'll tell you what! Diana could always find the best things wherever she went, things y’all never even knew you needed. And I’ll bet you could find something special up in this house right now, something that was meant for you.” Harlow nodded, feeling tears come to her eyes yet not fall. 

With nothing else to say, Dorinda walked down the porch steps and through the small yard, closing the gate behind her as she went. Harlow went back inside, cloistering herself in the silence of Diana’s house once more. This time, a small smile tugged at her lips as she held the glass pan closer to her midsection. The chowder was warm in her hands as she made her way down the hall to the kitchen, passing the parlor as she went. It wasn’t particularly heavy, nor were the rolls, but Harlow wasn't sure how well the former would even fit in the rather small fridge already stuffed full of two other similar-sized pans. She couldn’t exactly stack them on top of each other, as none of them had proper lids.

Just as she reached the doorframe to the kitchen, her stomach made itself known with a keening grumble, like a smaller Eddie scratching at her insides. Harlow, surprised that she didn’t realize how hungry she was, supposed it was time that she, too, ate something for lunch. 

Shaking her head in amusement at Dorinda’s hungry cat, she grabbed a ceramic plate from one of the taller cabinets, standing on her tip-toes to do so. The place was gently set on the smooth stone countertop next to a mismatched fork and knife, clearly not belonging in the same set, and yet thrown into the same drawer to be randomly-selected in times like these.

Her breakfast had been a mediocre bowl of cereal, relatively bland in taste and growing a bit stale from eating it each day since she moved to Port Charlemagne. This dish on the other hand, was still warm, smelled delicious, and had a promising look from what the teen could see through the sides of the glass pan. Her other choices were Danny’s and Rita’s casseroles.

After a silent debate with herself, Harlow decided to go with the already-warm chowder, mostly because she wanted to know what Diana’s favorite of Dori’s dishes tasted like, and as a bonus, she wouldn’t have to microwave any of it yet. 

Peeling the tin foil off of the glass, the teen was hit with the huge waft that had been confined within the pan and was now floating around the kitchen like a delicious ghost. Her mouth watered copiously enough that she had to wipe the corner of her lip with her shirt. 

_ And here I thought it smelled good before…  _ she shook her head in disbelief, pulling a drawer open and grabbing a small metal spatula, one more commonly used for pie slices.

Brandishing the spatula at the unveiled casserole, Harlow sunk the sharper end into the crispy top layer with a quick slice before easing its way down to the glass where the metal made a low  _ ding _ in refusal to descend any further. Instead, the implement skid smoothly along, scooping up a substantial helping of the mushy chowder. The hungry girl practically licked her lips as she deposited the food onto her plate.

The accompanying rolls looked warm and soft, blanketed as they were in cloth to keep them so. Butter would make them even better, hence the addition of a knife beside the fork. Harlow could almost taste dipping the bread chunks into the casserole....

She strode over to the adjoining countertop and reached for the rolls, hauling the large basket up by its thinner handles and spinning around to get them to the table where her food was waiting. 

Then, as if in slow-motion, the left handle gave way, causing the basket to swing in a low arc and end up sideways in her right hand. The rolls spun and twisted in the air, falling fast and bouncing to and fro across the hardwood floor. A gasp escaped Harlow’s slack jaw at the surprise and disappointment at the rolls’ fates. They moved away from her, curling haphazardly along the floor in an attempt to evade her single-handed efforts to catch them before they got too far away.

Getting down on her knees, she set the broken basket down next to her and began picking up the rolls. While she wasn’t a germaphobe, there were moments like this that made her reconsider her stance on the matter. After all, she couldn’t exactly wash them. They’d get soggy and dissolve right through her grasping fingers.

Shaking her dark-haired head, she noticed that one of the rolls had reached the other side of the kitchen and nearly slipped underneath a section of the red drapery hugging the window. Harlow exhaled slowly, glad that she noticed it, otherwise it would have gone moldy, or attracted mice with their beady eyes and a penchant for eating their way through just about anything to get their chosen food.

So, Harlow marched over to grab the wayward roll, hoping it was still dust-free enough to consume. From where she was hovering in the corner, hunched over it like a disobedient child in a time out, the bread looked fine. 

Quickly, the drapes were raised with one hand while the teen cradled the baseball-sized chunk in her other hand, fingers brushing along the circumference in an attempt to clean it of offending particles or harmful bacteria lurking in the shadows of Diana’s kitchen.

However, due to the raised red fabric, the afternoon sun was able to crawl just a bit further into the sheltered area, lighting something glassy and sending a tiny reflected beam right into Harlow’s unprepared eye. She yelped, nearly dropping the roll onto the floor once more as she swung her head out of the beam’s path.

Rubbing her temporarily-blinded eye, she used her other to investigate what had assaulted her vision. An unassuming little glass disc laid placidly propped up against the wooden trim, as though it had been waiting for her and had wanted to thoroughly catch her attention.

Tilting her head at the oddity, Harlow tentatively picked up the disc with her other hand, letting the drapery fall back to the floor in a heavy  _ whump _ . It felt light in her fingers despite its thickness and distorted what lay behind its sight. The cool glass chilled her palm as it migrated down her hand and became ensnared in her fist.

Shaking her head, Harlow returned to her previous task, placing the remaining roll back in its damaged basket and placing said basket on the countertop with her cooling chowder. Blithely, she grabbed one of the rolls and flipped the cloth back over the rest, ensuring that they at least didn’t grow stale in the immediate future.

Using her fork, she smashed the dish underneath the metal prongs, stirring it around to diffuse the heat between the cooling outer layer and the warm insides. The cream of mushroom sauce oozed out from between the fork and made a squishing sound like a grisly stabbing and Harlow froze, shaken at the reminder.

Diana had been murdered in the same room she now sat in, but there was a missing chair in the house. The seat she’d occupied had been taken for evidence and then ultimately thrown away, or so she heard. It wasn’t like she’d seen it, but she’d noticed the missing desk chair and had wanted to ask, thinking it had been stolen for some unknown and possibly nefarious reason.

Wishing for a distraction, she looked to the glass disk once more and noticed a jagged crack about a fourth of the way into the diameter, inching towards the center with its lightning-bolt appearance. The center was narrower, looking like one side was a little bowl deep enough to hold a few drops of liquid, which was an oddity in itself. She vaguely remembered a science textbook identifying the shape as a meniscus lens.

Looking down, Harlow realized that she’d eaten everything on her plate, including the roll.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> My apologies to the month-long (and then some) hiatus. Thank you to all 18 of you who have checked out this fic. I hope to update with another chapter in a few days. It has felt great getting back into writing again! Also, sorry if this chapter seems a bit all over the place. I was working on it on and off over the last month and didn't feel like reading it over again for the millionth time. It do be like that sometimes with us writers.
> 
> There will be a lot I will probably cut at some point, but I'll see when I do revisions after everything is said and done.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy Chapter 4, and we'll be looking beyond the portal in Chapter 5!

**June 4th, 2019**

Harlow didn’t think she would have been able to stand living in Diana’s house if most of the furniture had been taken out, for either the investigation or for her family members’ inheritances. The house would have been rendered even more hollow than it already felt. Many of the rooms already felt stale from lack of use, especially the ones being used for storage. Despite the disorganized mess similar to those of hoarders, the storage rooms seemed very vacant and lifeless, more like an abstract painting of a living space than anything emotionally habitable.

Now, traversing down the dimly-lit hall on the main floor, Harlow cocked the meniscus lens back and forth, entertaining herself with the rainbows bouncing onto the wall in sloping arcs. They danced, almost hypnotizingly back into her eyes. The five portraits watched her bored antics, unblinking and characteristically still.

In the study, Harlow pushed back the blinds to let the sun into the stale and somber room. The desk was cold, its wood nicely polished and unmarred by scratches, and the space behind the desk was glaringly vacant with no chair to speak of. Five round grooves into the carpet beneath the mahogany plateau showed its previous companion and seeing them made Harlow feel more like life had been sucked out of the room. 

Not for the first time, Harlow wondered how exactly it occurred that night. She’d gathered bits and pieces of information from her rather tight-lipped relatives, gathering that the intruder either stowed away in the house during the day, or snuck in undetected and locked up the house during the night. 

Either way, all of the windows and doors had been locked. Then, each of the storage rooms had been ransacked. Boxes were opened and dumped on the floor. Books and photos were strewn all over. Even the tidied beds in the guest rooms were stripped with their pillows bleeding feathers in the kicked-up dust from decades worth of souvenirs, memorabilia, and knick-knacks.  _ They must have been rummaging silently for hours, lost their patience, and decided that they’d had enough being quiet about it… _ Harlow grimaced, tightening her grip on the lens.

Then, according to her grandfather, they searched the study last, likely thinking that Diana, who was sleeping upstairs on the opposite side of the house, wouldn’t hear them. Unfortunately for Diana, she did. Knowing her, Harlow could easily picture the old woman waking up and immediately confronting the intruder, only for her bravery to seal her fate.

After that, it seemed rather obvious to both Harlow and the family members who knew about it. Diana made her way down to the study, likely catching the intruder off-guard. Then, the intruder incapacitated her, most likely knocking her out, and dragged her into the kitchen using the office chair. Lastly, after being tied up and maybe interrogated, Diana was stabbed in the chest with a lawn dart, of all things. 

The medical examiner had mentioned severe trauma to the head that caused a concussion in addition to the stab wound and forensics couldn’t find any matching fingerprints linking the murder to anyone who didn’t have a tight alibi.

Harlow hated the amount of uncertainties, the worst of which was the motive. If it was a simple burglary and something  _ was _ indeed stolen, then there wouldn’t have been a need for an interrogation. However, if the murderer needed to interrogate Diana, why wasn’t she confronted in her room right from the start? The murder weapon was another oddity altogether. 

Diana didn’t even own a set of lawn darts, so the murder must have had it on their person. It was an unconventional weapon, but a lethal one nonetheless. The pointed projectile-based game has been responsible for the death of at least three people and has been banned for more than thirty years. So, the likelihood of anyone stumbling across a dart and using it in place of a knife was very slim, and yet, this person did.

Shaking her head, Harlow opened the topmost desk drawer and paused. A small blue scrap of paper laid atop a sea of white and yellowing forms and essays. It seemed recently written, perhaps from sometime last month. The paper was still crisp and not covered in dust, Diana’s neatly-flowing script dancing across the page. Harlow examined the words themselves and tilted her head in mild confusion. 

_ The wolf-man is a friend. _

Rolling it over in her mind, Harlow tried to think of what the words might mean. It wasn’t a riddle, per se, but it sounded like a hint, a piece of a larger puzzle. Shrugging, she pocketed the note, feeling it fold in two as she began walking out of the room. 

Harlow thought of her drawing, then Diana’s letters, the mention of the portraits within, and the person who reminded the old woman of the werewolf her great-niece had drawn. It was a circular train of thought that spun around and around one single idea, leading her back down the path she’d come from.

As she strolled back down the short hallway, she looked at the large portraits, giving each of them another glance.

This time, the first she noticed was that of a photo taken in the nineteen-seventies, judging by the hair and clothing worn by the inhabitants, and the yellowed Buick Estate seen in the background. Even Harlow could tell that the photographer had loved this place and the people in it.

It was autumn, piles of orange and red leaves littering the ground and the road in the middle of the suburban setting. In fact, Harlow could easily narrow the time down further. It was Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns were stationed in front of every doorstep, leading down steps if there were multiples. Fake graves stuck out of the ground and other tacky lawn ornaments added unnecessary variety to the chaos already occurring in the photo.

A group of eight teens clustered around the station wagon, raising their arms high and smiling at the camera from a distance. However, the focuses of the photo were two young women, both seeming to be in their mid twenties. One had long blonde hair and pale skin while the other had a poofy afro and dark skin. Despite their visual differences, they both smiled at the camera, holding the other’s hand while a large group of children in costumes became a blur of colors and shapes around them. Clearly, most of them couldn’t sit still long enough to become a part of what seemed like a fond farewell from the neighborhood youth of the era. 

Harlow moved towards the next portrait she’d missed the first time around, immediately seeing a contrast in mannerisms between the people inhabiting both the previous photo and the one in front of her.

Unlike the autumn neighborhood before, this portrait depicted an elaborate mansion during springtime. A bleak, gloomy sky saturated the pristine grass and flowerbeds with rich hues. The photo itself was relatively modern, the clarity and depth of colors were unlike any she’d seen in the other photos.

However, the people posing for the portraits seemed anything but. Two young teens, both looking like they’d stepped out of the Victorian era, sat on a bench in the middle of the shot. Their faces were similarly downtrodden, almost irritated but mostly sad. Harlow guessed that they must have been twins, given their shared curly brown hair, rounded faces, and dark brown eyes. A thin maid and a greying gardener stood behind the twins, both wearing antiquated uniforms befitting their occupations. 

None of them smiled, but considering the black clothing the twins wore, likely funeral garb, they had reason to be less than cheerful. Still, Harlow wondered why they wore such old-looking clothes when the time period the photo was taken in was close to modern day.

Before she even glanced at the next portrait, she remembered the bowtie she’d been made to wear at work. Moving down to the end of the blown-up photos, she took a closer look at the gangsters in the black and white snapshot.

During her shift, Walter had decided to teach her, or “mansplain” as she preferred to label it, about Port Charlemagne’s prohibition-era history. While some of the information had been new, much of it had been given to her in little snippets over the months she and Diana had conversed, not counting what she vaguely remembered from the annual family gatherings. The old woman had partially taken it upon herself to entertain her with the lore around the various gangs that had set up shop in the harbor town, also encouraging Harlow to do some research of her own. However, Walter came off as so condescending that she couldn’t help but loathe his explanations.

Now, having that information despite its sources, Harlow immediately identified the gangsters in this photo as the Hallowind Harbor Gang, a former circus troupe that had come to Port Charlemagne to stir up some trouble with the local Irish and Italian mafias. Apparently they’d been bored with their previous occupations and decided to go for a much more perilous ride-or-die lifestyle. From what Harlow had heard from Diana, they’d done everything from stealing shipments of liquor and replacing them with dead fish to painting incriminating words across the buildings known to house members of either mafia. They pitted the Irish and Italians against each other and moved in on their territory while the mafias kept busy running each other out of town. Each of their grand charades became a public spectacle, something that said public actually found incredibly entertaining.

Like vigilantes, they mostly outwitted the police while playing their dangerous games. Somehow, their main hideout was never found, but many suspected it to be somewhere near the Devil’s Cove, the bay near The Coast Is Clear. So, it was rather interesting for Diana to have a blown up photo of four of the five main members playing cards. There definitely weren’t many pictures of them, only their speculative mugshots and a few candid snapshots that were often unclear.  _ Someone in town would definitely pay a lot of money to get their hands on this… _ Harlow tilted her head at the portrait, silently comparing her bowtie to those of the men in front of her. They were the same style.

The teen huffed, remembering her quest to possibly pick out “the wolf-man” from the portraits. She took a glance at the three black and white actors in the next portrait. Rejecting the possibility of either of the two men being the one she was looking for. They didn’t seem to express much, wolfish characteristics or otherwise.

The woman in the flashy kimono seemed more like a viper than a wolf. She seemed agile despite her smaller size and her exotic eyes held a warm, calculating stare towards someone behind the camera, perhaps even the photographer themselves. Harlow even noticed a slight curl to her lip, a secret smile befitting the Mona Lisa. It was such a small difference in facial muscle movement that she wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t been looking.

Next to her, the garishly-dressed man juxtaposed her perfectly. He grinned for the camera, but the rest of him looked the worst kind of uncomfortable. His posture was hunched, his hands were shoved in his pockets, and his eyebrows were tilted downwards in a silent cry for help. This man was no wolf. Even Harlow could tell that he was much more of a mouse.

Then, looking at the other man, she noticed his narrowed, bushy brows, flat nose, and tight lips. He looked irritated, making Harlow wonder if the scaly costume he was currently putting on was either really warm or uncomfortable.  _ Probably both,  _ she guessed. Again, this man didn’t look like a wolf, even if his apparent expression and larger build suggested otherwise. Instead, she took in his features and came up with something more lizard-like. Still, she could see why he was playing the part of a reptilian creature.

Harlow finally looked at the final portrait where it hung between the others in the very middle of the hallway. The afternoon sun shined on it, making the glossy canvas shine. However, the middle of its surface was covered with something oddly…  _ fuzzy _ . She frowned, standing fully in front of the large photo and cautiously running her finger through the substance.

It was dust; fuzzy, dry, and grey dust; just like what was on each of the disturbed knick-knacks, photographs, and boxes she’d spent days sorting through.  _ But why here?  _ She asked herself, marveling over the dust’s circular formation.  _ And how? _

The animatronic puma’s perpetual catlike grin came alive once more now that it had been uncovered, leaving the other figures in the literal dust. Carefully, she plucked the rest of the fuzz off of the canvas, uncovering more people as she went along.

Just as she noticed before, there was a middle-aged, and rather plump, waitress in a blue uniform standing next to the similarly-dressed puma. 

Next to the waitress, there was a man in a grey suit. His thin brown hair came down to his shoulders and he had yellow-tinted glasses, making him look a bit like John Lennon, especially with his scruffy goatee. However, underneath all the hair, Harlow could spot the beginnings of a clerical collar.  _ A pastor?  _ Harlow guessed, turning to the similar-looking man next to him. 

He looked at least ten years younger, but he had the same brown hair and goatee, even if he seemed to take more care in his appearance than the pastor. The taller man grinned with a dashing devil-may-care grin, wrapping his arm around the police officer closest to him, a smaller woman with long black hair. They seemed fond of each other, reminding Harlow of the couples she saw on her way to and from work.

However, who really intrigued her was the second police officer peeking over his shoulder, looking past an inebriated-looking man in a ripped flannel, among others, to the shadowed corner of the bar where the real wolf-man lurked with his surprisingly obedient wolf.

Just as before, the tall, burned, barrel-chested man leaned against a support beam with his arms crossed, showing off his gnarled scars. He looked tense, scowling at the camera like the bar was the last place he wanted to be in that moment. Still, the way he watched from the shadows gave Harlow the impression that he didn’t like closed-in areas with lots of people making loud noises. Belatedly, she wondered if her boss was the same way.  _ Since they both seem to be veterans, maybe they aren’t so different… maybe this is his way of dealing with his trauma. He’s even got a therapy animal… of sorts. _

Harlow ran a finger over the canvas, right over his face, to make sure there wasn’t any more dust sticking onto the textured surface. Then, she stepped back to look at the five canvases as a whole, taking a look at each one and feeling…  _ something,  _ something she couldn’t put her finger on. It felt like she was on the edge of something much bigger than herself.

Curiously. Harlow traced the formerly-dusty area with her eyes, remembering the lens in her hand. Slowly, she raised the glass to her eye, holding it like a monocle. 

Her vision suddenly changed, showing the same portraits she saw before, but now there was a whole different layer to them that definitely couldn’t be explained as a simple trick of the light. 

Closing her uncovered eye, Harlow saw the canvases change completely, displaying landscapes rather than people. Now, the gangster photo looked suspended over a harbor scene, its black and white waves churning and racing for the grey coast shifting under its dark gray docks. The film set photo was relatively the same, but the people and set-pieces were gone, now a mere shell of a room. Even the polaroid photo of the bar scene showed a dark forest with tall oaks and evergreens. A swirl of fall leaves blew across the frame and she jumped back in surprise.

Slowly, Harlow lowered the lens, immediately noticing the landscapes vanish and return to their normal stagnant portraits as though nothing had changed. Huffing a noise of intrigue, Harlow raised the glass again, seeing the shifting landscapes once more. A nervous giggle bubbled up from her clenching gut as she waved the lens in front of her face, watching the portraits change from unmoving to atmospheric. She stepped closer.

Unbiddenly, her shaking hand reached forward and touched the surface of the animated canvas. It was chilled, yet not freezing, wet, yet not dripping, and beckoning, yet not desperate. Harlow pushed her hand into the canvas, feeling it sink in as though it were made of chocolate pudding. When her wrist was swallowed by the substance, the tips of her fingers emerged on the other side, feeling the late summer wind.

Harlow withdrew entirely, stepping back into the opposite wall and holding her explorative hand in her less adventurous one. She gulped, wetting her dry lips. A moment passed before she shakily raised the lense again, staring into the late-summer wilderness before her. Her phone buzzed in her pocket: her parents were checking in.

Walking down the hall, she held the lens in her tight fist and reached for her phone with her other hand. Harlow pressed the small rectangular button on the side, displaying a photo of the ocean with an oversized moon covered by the text notification.

_ Mom: How is it going? _

Harlow huffed a laugh, feeling the anxiety from her most recent discovery coming forth in escalating waves,  _ Oh, It’s going perfectly fine, Mom. I just found out Aunt Diana’s pictures actually  _ move,  _ but it’s cool, nothing weird about that! _

She felt lightheaded from the whole situation, dashing over to sit on the old wooden stairs in the foyer. Her hand palmed her head, feeling for a fever and sliding down her pale face to support her chin. One of her pills sounded pretty good right about now. She’d heard they were also meant to be helpful for anxiety, too.

_ When I use the lens, the portraits become portals, and I found the lens in the kitchen, which was where Aunt Diana… _ Her thoughts swam,  _ What if the person who snuck in here came from one of the portraits? I have the lens… Can they come back? Nothing was taken, which means they might try to come back to find what they were looking for.  _ Harlow began to breath harsher, curling in on herself whilst still clutching the lens.  _ Maybe someone else there could help me... _

The thought came out of nowhere, making her pause in her moment of panic. It made sense. If the blown-up pictures led to other places, then there must be some good people in those places, and maybe one or a few of them might know more about the portals, the lens, or even who might have killed her great-aunt.

_ No, _ Harlow rapidly shook her head, attempting to banish such a crazy thought from her mind.  _ You don’t know anything about anyone…  _ She stood, beginning to pace along the long rug in the entryway.

_ On the one hand, _ Harlow considered,  _ I could be losing it. I’ve been in this house all alone for a few days now, and even if I told anyone, they’d think I was nuts, too. _

Her bare feet padded quietly against the rug, lightly tapping with each step. Still, the sound was loud to her in the silent house.

Frowning, Harlow looked to the stairs and the hallway landing above her. She tensely crossed her arms before creeping over to the carpeted steps, watching the left hall until it was out of sight. Feeling like she was five years old again and scared of her parent’s basement, she ran up the stairs like something was chasing her.

Once Harlow got to the top of the stairs, she turned around and began walking backwards towards her room, watching the hallway below for any sign of someone lurking just out of sight. Her hand gripped her doorknob and she was quick to enter her bedroom and lock the door behind her.

Harlow’s feet slowly slid out from underneath her and the rest of her couldn’t help but follow, leading her to sit on the wooden floor with her back against the door. She reached for her backpack, clenching her fist around the worn canvas as she yanked it from its spot next to the closet.

Undoing the zipper, her hand rummaged around until they met the small plastic capsule containing the blue and white pills. She then took out her half-empty water bottle, listening to the lukewarm water swish around in the clear plastic.

Quickly, she took out one of the small pills and held it dubiously in her comparatively larger hand. With her other hand, she closed the orange capsule and threw it back in her bag without even sparing it a glance. 

Frowning, Harlow put the pill in her mouth and immediately hated the feeling of it on her tongue.  _ Like eating plastic… _ She internally lamented, sipping once on her water to make it easier to swallow.

Feeling a bit better despite her reservations about taking antidepressants, she coerced her train of thought to circle back to its previous engagement. Pulling her knees to her chest and resting her head back against the door, she played through her previous thoughts concerning her sanity but considered her options further.

_ If I both say nothing and do nothing about them, go about my daily life as though I saw nothing… They’ll still be there, waiting…  _ Harlow twitched uncomfortably, tightening her grip on her knees. 

_ And maybe the person who murdered Diana will be waiting, too. Maybe they’d want nothing more than for me to deny the portals’ existences. _

_ I feel so blind _ , she grimaced,  _ I don’t know what to do… I wish I could speak to someone about this and find some answers.  _ Unfortunately, something was telling her the person or people she was looking for were beyond the portals themselves. 

Harlow sighed, looking down at her bare feet, “I don’t know if I can do this,” she said to the empty room.

The answer was obvious.  _ I might not be able to find what I want to know… but I owe it to Diana to at least try. _

★★★

“The Codfather,” formerly “The Tilted Tommy,” was not the strangest name for a convenience store Harlow had ever seen. That particular distinction would go to “The Bathing Asteroid Nano Store,” a little gas-station-like establishment her family had stopped at on their way to Port Charlemagne. It was nice, even sporting “futuristic” soda machines with flavors she’d never seen before.

This store, on the other hand, was not so modern. In fact, like most of the other places in town, the front of the store seemed to go out of its way to look vintage. Stylized tin containers held modern food items like granola bars and fruit snacks, there was an industrial machine that made saltwater taffy, and the area around the register was devoted to clear containers full of just about any candy that had ever been made, each with their own large plastic scoop. The back of the store, however, seemed much more modern, containing name brands and plastic packaging.

Harlow winced as the old rusting bell rang above the painted glass door when she walked in. An overeager employee peeked around the rather large arrangement of maps and brochures on the register counter, smiling at her. When she awkwardly froze and accidentally made eye-contact, the older man nodded and ducked out of sight.

Frowning, Harlow made a b-line to the hiking gear, keeping an eye out for any other employees that might want to unnecessarily approach her. She spotted one mopping the floor near the refrigerated area, but they offered nothing more than a quick smile before they replaced their earbud and resumed listening to their muffled rock music. Another uniformed employee was speaking rather animatedly to an older couple who were looking at some of the souvenir trinkets near the front of the store.

A large banner hung above the items she was looking for, displaying an icon of a stick figure climbing a mountain with a bright yellow sun behind the two. While Harlow wouldn’t mind a good hike, she didn’t necessarily want to climb the next Everest.  _ Hopefully I won’t have to go far to find someone who can help me.  _ She frowned a bit at the array of different gear she could purchase, thinking much of it would be overkill. The bell ringing at the front of the store didn’t even register in her mind.

Port Charlemagne was less than two hours from the Appalachian Trail, a hiking path that spanned over 2,000 miles. Alternatively, there were guided local hiking and climbing trails that went along the rocky shores and cliffs of the Devil’s Cove. So, there was more than a bit of clientele looking for climbing and hiking gear. 

“Are you finding everything alright?” A male voice piped up from behind Harlow.

When she turned around, she immediately noticed a tall, muscular employee who had snuck up behind her. Unbiddenly, a tense grimace made its way onto her face. She hated it when people approached her in this way, always being of the “If I need help, I’ll ask” mindset. It just seemed awkward for everyone involved no matter how friendly they were, and Harlow wasn’t the most social to begin with.

“Oh, I’m okay!” she spluttered, the reassurance coming out rushed and nervous, “I’m just looking at getting some stuff for hiking. Nothing major…”

The man, looking to be about thirty, nodded and grinned, “Sure, sure. This area’s my specialty. If you’re ever looking for climbing gear, I can definitely point you in the right direction.”

Harlow nodded, but then reconsidered when he started walking away, “Thanks… I… Wait?” 

The man turned around, his tawny hair ruffling a bit, “Yeah.”

She looked away for a moment before looking back to him, not making eye-contact, “I’m going hiking, but I am unfamiliar with the terrain. I don’t think it has a set path…”

The man seemed to analyze her words. Meanwhile, Harlow looked down, spotting the name-tag clipped to his breast pocket.  _ Hugh. _ “You wouldn’t happen to be Rita McGregor’s husband, would you?”

Hugh’s blue eyes immediately looked to hers and he grinned widely, “Yeah that’s right! How did you know?”

Harlow smiled a bit in return, “I’m your new neighbor. Diana’s great-niece.”

Hugh laughed, the sound tinted with disbelief, “Huh, small world… Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

He shook her hand with a firm grip, making Harlow’s hesitant one waver in comparison, “We are very sorry for your loss. Diana seemed like an amazing lady, ‘n the few times I’ve met her.” The man’s sturdy face dropped a bit with sympathy.

“Thank you,” Harlow placated, “It’s been hard, but it’s felt good being back in Port Charlemagne.”

“Yeah,” Hugh tilted his head, a spark coming to his eyes, “Oh! I just remembered. There are a few things I can advise you to get for your hiking. Stay right here. I’ll be back!” he grinned, disappearing behind some shelves.

“Okay…” Harlow said, belatedly figuring he was already out of earshot.

She breathed, relieved that her social anxiety had eased for the moment.  _ Hugh was nice, friendly, _ she reminded herself, looking at the shelves around her to distract her mind.

Harlow dismissed the harnesses and other climbing gear, plucking a few sturdy-looking flashlights from a small collection of different types. One was completely black and seemed to have a metal exterior. Another was a pastel blue color and seemed to be made of strong plastic. The store even sold headlamp flashlights, which Harlow had to admit might come in handy.

The teen weighed her options, reading each light’s packaging. Fortunately, they were all waterproof and battery-operated. However, there was a big difference in size and weight. The black metal flashlight was heavier and was about a foot long while the blue light was half that size and about a third of the weight. The former’s beam was bigger and brighter while the latter’s was smaller and dimmer. 

Frowning, Harlow set the smaller flashlight aside and stood with her feet apart, as though she were at a batter’s plate. She slowly swung the darker flashlight at a phantom threat, liking the idea of having a multi-functional tool that doubled as a blunt object. That, and it seemed to be cheaper than the headlamp.

“I hope that’s not for me,” a distinct humored male voice interrupted her thoughts.

Harlow jerked, a small groan escaping her lips. Swivelling around, she immediately spotted the tall red-haired boy she had to work with, “Hi, Walter.” The borderline disdain she felt for him was barely kept out of her voice.

“Hey, Walt! Who’re you talking’ to,” another male voice called, coming closer.

After a moment, a familiar lanky dark teen came around the corner, toting an afro and a few vintage-looking candy bars, “Aw, hey, Harlow! Look who it is, Way!”

“Hi, Walter, Deaton,” Harlow nodded, her lips tightening with unease.

A spectacled boy with dark curls and blue eyes came over from behind Deaton. Upon seeing her, Waylon’s cheeks immediately turned a bright red, not that Harlow noticed or cared, and he stared at his shoes. She nodded at him, “Hello, Waylon.”

Waylon’s returned greeting seemed to be swallowed by his cracking voice, the sound coming out in one long and nearly intelligible word, “Hiharlow.”

Walter laughed, which sounded more like a cackle than anything, “Oh my god, Waylon!”

Harlow grimaced at the redhead’s volume and Waylon’s incoming humiliation, turning around and focusing on grabbing a few things she knew she would need for her foray into the portraits. She grabbed a 32-ft neon orange rope, a pair of thick knee-high socks, and a pair of size-9 hiking boots.

“You going hiking, Harlow?” Deaton inquired, coming over to look at the shelves in front of her.

“Yeah,” she frowned a bit, surveying the route to get to the snacks without bumping into anyone. Effectively, the three boys had effectively boxed her into the aisle. Now, she would either have to push past them or go all the way around the store to leave if she wanted to.

“Cool,” Deaton nodded, picking up a set of knee pads and examining their packaging, “Climbing’s more my thing, but you do you. You know…”

Harlow was sure Deaton had continued his thought, the rest of his words becoming drowned out of her mind. She couldn’t focus, not with the smell coming off of Deaton’s jacket. While she didn’t use marijuana, as it wasn’t legal in her home state, she knew what it smelled like after her mother had commented on it while they walked into a mall. As a cop, it felt like her mother was hard-wired to immediately identify it, and that spooked her more than she wanted to admit. That, and the awful school year she’d just gone through with a drug-related friendship fall out made her thoughts swim. She felt hot, cold, and numb all at once, her stomach beginning to tighten with that oh-too-familiar anxiety. The snap back to the present moment was nearly dizzying.

“I’m sure the routes are lovely this time of year,” she wheezed, sidestepping Deaton and pushing between Waylon and Walter to get to the front of the store. Catching the scent of cigarettes on Walter’s shirt certainly didn’t help her cause. She coughed, mostly in surprise, but there was a bit of shock that turned the movement into a full-body lurch over to the packaged food.

“Woah, hey!” Walter exclaimed, “You possessed or something?”

Harlow didn’t even want to spare the time to glare at her co-worker, striding behind a shelf only to spot Kaia standing right in front of the snacks she wanted to grab, “‘m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Hey, Walt,” she spoke without even looking at Harlow, “I can’t find the peanut butter ones, damn tourists took ‘em all.”

Kaia turned towards Harlow and popped her gum in greeting, her beady eyes searching, “Oh, it’s you. Are the others around?”

“Yeah,” Harlow jerked her thumb behind her, feeling out of breath, “Hiking stuff…”

Kaia shrugged, striding past her, and around the corner, “Thanks.”

As soon as the blonde girl was gone, Harlow immediately stepped up to the individually-packaged and non-perishable foods. With unsteady arms, she grabbed a hefty pack of trail mix, two sleeves of crackers, and three different kinds of energy bars. If she’d bothered to notice that one was indeed a peanut butter one, she might have laughed and grabbed a few more to spite her co-workers.

“Hey, Harlow,” Hugh McGregor came around the end of the aisle, waving a small packaged compass in his larger hand, “I found this. I think you might need it if you’re unfamiliar with the unmarked path.”

“That sounds great, thank you,” Harlow smiled slightly, glad to have her neighbor’s comforting presence. A part of her wondered if she was associating him with Rita’s kindness. It seemed odd that she didn’t mind Hugh after just meeting him but could barely stand some of her co-workers after knowing them for many hours.

“You’re welcome! I can take the rest of your items if you’re ready to check out,” he offered, leading the way to the cash register when she nodded.

Fortunately for her, she didn’t run into the other teens on her way out.

★★★

About forty minutes later, Harlow was in Diana’s kitchen, preparing her backpack for her journey into the portals. She’d filled up two water bottles, placing them in the two side pouches designed for such uses. Then, she’d removed the packaging from the non-food items, putting the long socks on her bare legs and the dark hiking boots onto her feet. Thankfully, they fit perfectly, even leaving enough of the laces to double knot them.

The rope sat at the bottom of her bag, acting as a cushion in addition to her army green windbreaker and an extra outfit in case she ruined her current clothes. A small first-aid kit sat in the large front pocket along with her pills and some painkillers. Her small collection of snacks were placed on top of her windbreaker and her compass was placed in the pocket of her black jean shorts.

Harlow breathed, feeling more confident about what she was going to do now that she had the right equipment and the time to think about it. She exited the kitchen and crossed the foyer, glancing at the front door to make sure it was locked up tight before continuing onward. The hallway leading to Diana’s office was quiet, if not a little dim. 

Stopping halfway down, Harlow stood before the middle portrait depicting a joyful bar scene. This one seemed to be her best bet as far as welcoming and forthcoming people, as she didn’t really feel good about her chances with the gangsters, the actors, or the stiff, forlorn-looking people from the portrait on the bar scene’s other side. Besides, the wolfman was at the bar, and she wanted to speak to him first, considering that Diana might have known him. There was also the matter of the suspicious dust circle absent on all the other portraits.

She adjusted the backpack slung onto one shoulder, feeling the flashlight, food, and water settle. Harlow winced, sending a quick reassuring text to her mother before raising the lens to her eye. She tugged once at her black turtleneck collar and pulled down her baggy jean jacket, things that were sweltering now but would likely be appreciated when she entered her chosen portrait.

Just as before, the scene wavered, showing the dense forest beyond the canvas. A part of her breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that she wasn’t completely crazy. Gingerly, she raised her leg and her hiking-boot-clad foot slipped through the gelatinous mesh bridging the old New England house to the rural early-autumn wilderness. Her hands followed, gripping the sides of the frame and pushing the rest of herself up, into the unknown.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've got another chapter for you all. If you know the summary, then you know what's going on. There will be some world building and new characters to meet. I hope you all enjoy it.

**June 4th, 2019**

After passing through the initial coolness of the gelatinous portal, Harlow was immediately chilled further by the shadowy woods that now stood before her as plain as day. Phantom birds called to each other from their respective nests hidden away in towering pine trees and tall oaks. Unseen squirrels and other wild rodents scurried around, kicking up leaves and grass. The wind blew around in almost childish circles, darting back and forth between branches and teasing at her short dark hair.

The partially bare skin of her thighs broke out in goosebumps and Harlow shivered, looking down at her outfit of dark jean shorts, long woolen socks, a black turtleneck, and a thin jean jacket. Perhaps she should have picked something a bit warmer to wear in this early autumn environment, but the thought had seemed so outlandish and sweltering in the summer heat.. 

Her boot nudged a bit of the mossy dirt below her, making sure it was both stable and real, before the rest of her followed, stepping towards the direction of the sunlight peeking through the dense canopy.

Harlow’s pale hands wandered, brushing against the rough bark of a pine tree. The sharp ridges of the moss-covered boulders were so unlike and yet so similar to the ones outside Port Charlemagne that she had to reconsider where she really was. However, the sea brought in many clouds and fog, both of which seemed to be much more minimal where she was now, even in the shade. Here, the large trees seemed to go on for miles in each direction, the dust-colored fog lingering on the ground and parting around her ankles. 

It all felt surreal, dreamlike. A part of her wondered if she’d actually hit her head when she’d crouched down to grab the roll off the kitchen floor and this was all in her head, but she didn’t think she could be so imaginative.

As the sun’s stretching rays painted more and more of the tree trunks and foliage, Harlow let herself reach for it, only to find that it held no warmth. It was just as chilly as the rest of the landscape. In fact, she could have sworn everything around her was lacking in saturation, much like the enlarged portrait itself.

Looking down at her clothes, she noticed how blue her jacket was. In this environment, it was almost too blue, or maybe everything else was tinted with faded yellow.

_ I’m inside a photograph,  _ Harlow reminded herself, as she kept walking towards the sunlight,  _ It doesn’t have to make sense. _

After a few more meters of walking, the ground abruptly dropped off in front of her, making up the edge of a rather tall cliff. Harlow gasped, stopping just before her right foot slid off the precipice. She heard a few pebbles hit the ground and dared to lean over the grassy peak. Her eyes widened at the fatal fifty-foot drop and she immediately backed up, plastering herself against the nearest tree. She gulped, tracing the sharp edge with her eyes and following all the way down the tall hill she now realized she was on top of.

Mountains filled in the landscape off to her left and right sides while a deep valley with a small river cut through the middle. However, it was what lay off in the far distance that shocked her. A huge inky green tree, bigger than the mountains, sat in the center of a dense horde of dark conifers. It seemed to leech out towards the bright wilderness between them, turning everything around it black with its shadows. The sky in the distance was rumbling grey despite the bright blue sky above her. A storm was coming.

Harlow bit her lip nervously, worried about getting caught in the rain and becoming lost on her way back to the portrait portal. She’d come so far and she didn’t want to turn back now, not after this massive discovery. Depending on the solidity of the dirt beneath her feet, mudslides were another possible pitfall in her journey. Even so, she needed to find shelter soon.

After looking at the valley again, Harlow noticed a few roofs peeking over the furthest trees, not the dark shadowed ones in the distance, but the dense greenery she was currently looking over. Smoke had just begun to rise from one of them and a twinge of hope filled her chest. She could make it if she hurried.

Huffing once, she went behind the treeline and began following the cliff’s edge down the mountainside. Her strides became quicker, shifting into a jog as the trees became much more dense. Soon, she was outright sprinting and there was barely any light shining down on her. Some of the tree trunks became thin, unfamiliar, and vague to her eyes, making her look twice at them to make sure they weren’t people.

Twigs snapped under her boots, echoing around her. The wind whistled lowly through hollow trunks of dead trees laid abandoned on their sides. A ghastly inhuman hum filled the air and the teen couldn’t tell what was making the sound. She felt like she was being watched. Something big came up in front of her and she yelled in surprise.

Harlow froze in her tracks, her boots skidding to a stop in the dirt and pine needles beneath her. She didn’t know how close she was to running into a tree until now, and it would have really hurt to hit the one right in front of her at the speed she was running. On top of the low visibility, fog drifted in waves from behind her, falling down from the mountains to curl around the valley’s lingering warmth. If she stayed, she would hardly be able to see, and if she tried to go back the way she came, she’d be very lost.

Harlow chewed the inside of her mouth, swallowing dryly before continuing onward at a slower pace. Thankfully for her, there were no bugs crawling up her legs or along her arms. In fact, there was a noticeable lack of  _ any  _ visible wildlife. She heard them, of course, kicking up the dirt or knocking against tree branches, but there was never anything physically present when she looked. They were phantoms, echoes of what had likely been there before. The teen wondered if that’s all she would find in the little town in the valley: empty houses, empty streets, empty husks of people from a bygone era replaying phantom conversations like broken records. 

Harlow hugged herself as she kept walking, hoping she wouldn’t be wandering into a ghost town. It would certainly have made her journey eventful, but ultimately pointless. She already didn’t know how long she’d been walking and she was hesitant to whip out her brightly-lit phone, especially if she was being followed by something that might be intrigued by the light. Instead, she blindly reached around and unzipped her bag. Grabbing her foot-long metal flashlight, she closed her backpack and held it in front of her like a baseball bat. It was so dark around her.

Another stick cracked from somewhere behind her and she froze, the air caught in her throat as she turned her head, hoping that it was just another echo. Something shifted, sounding suspiciously like fabric. 

An ivory hand crawled around the side of a large tree and an equally pale face peeked around the other side, making Harlow let out a cut-off scream in surprise. Despite its short duration, it echoed around her, lingering in the air for seconds afterwards.

It breathed lowly, hovering and dipping in the dark fog. Harlow took a step back when the face, a mask, she now realized, tilted itself, almost curiously. The places where the eyes were supposed to be held no light, instead absorbing it into large black holes. Its neutral white mouth never moved, giving the face a blank, dead stare. Four long claw marks crossed the mask’s face from the right temple to the left jawline and Harlow wondered where they came from. She couldn’t even tell what it was thinking, but she desperately hoped it wouldn’t try to hurt her. 

The hand moved then, tilting upwards and pointing just to her left with an extended index finger. Harlow nodded, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to, but then the mask tilted its head back, the hand slid back behind the tree, and both disappeared into the fog, leaving no indication that they’d been there to begin with.

Harlow gaped, looking around and wondering if the ghostly being was going to pop out from behind another tree and startle her. The silence seemed to stretch, setting her teeth on edge. Her breathing quickened and her skin began to tingle with phantom touches brought on by her newfound nervousness. Now that she knew she wasn’t completely alone, she didn’t know exactly how to feel about it.

The cold foggy air seemed to ease a bit, becoming more manageable and easier for Harlow to see through. While the forest around her seemed similar to what she’d seen when she stepped through the portal, aside from the smaller trees and more variety in the smaller plants around her, it seemed earthier and less rocky. There were definitely more bushes and dying wildflowers than she’d seen near the portal.

After two minutes of the previous quiet rustling of the wind-blown branches, a loud clang echoed around her, resonating in her ears. Harlow reflexively turned her head and noticed a dim light shining through the underbrush to her left, in the same direction the mask had pointed to. More clangs followed, sounding vaguely metallic and hollow.

Looking around at the eerily foggy woods around her, she crouched a bit and peeked through the underbrush. The light brightened, but not by much. It must have been a fluorescent bulb, but the color was a light yellow, nothing like the modern LED exterior lights in Port Charlemagne.

Hesitantly, she crept closer, hoping that whoever was making the noise was friendly and would help her find her way out of this labyrinth of trees. The fog seemed to dim further as she continued forward, as though warded off by something. It wasn’t until she breached another tree line that she realized the light was looming over a rather decrepit-looking door frame.

Before Harlow stood a cabin, a broken-down eyesore with a cracked foundation, chipped and scratched wooden siding, and faded ugly brown paint. Dusty windows seemed to wheeze with abandoned spiderwebs and dead beetles. Moss had begun to spread up from the roots of the front steps, curling up to the roof in emerald tendrils. The shabby, dented roof was made of rusted and rotted metal and wood shingles. By all accounts, with the exception of the light, it looked abandoned.

Even the animals, had there been any, must have gotten to it before her. Deep gouges nearly cut the front door in two, ripping jaggedly into the cabin’s siding and sliding diagonally to the remnants of a simple doormat littered with human and wolf prints alike. However, no wolf could make scratches so deep nor make them so long and consistent.

Harlow moved to step back but the sound of a twig snapping made her freeze in place, but this time, she didn’t make the sound. Her breath caught in her throat and she slowly moved her head, hoping that whatever threat stood behind her would end her life quickly. At first, the two amber orbs glinting sharply at her in the shade of the tall pine trees looked like more fluorescent lights almost three feet above her head. At the same time, they seemed to glow with a life of their own.

When she faced them fully, she finally noticed the dark pupils that turned them into unblinking eyes. Dull red fur flared out around them and it took Harlow a moment to realize that their owner was stepping out into the lit clearing with her. The sight before her brought back memories of every werewolf movie she’d ever seen. 

It was huge, proudly displaying a thick barrel chest and elongated muzzle. Red, furred triangular ears tilted back, lips pulling into a yellow-toothed snarl stained with blood. Nothing about its stature seemed weak, every muscle under its thick fur doing its part to both intimidate and frighten her. Even with its torso tilted down with one arm poised in between them, she knew the creature could kill her easily.

Belatedly, it occurred to her that she’d gotten exactly what she wanted: a meeting with the wolf-man, even if he didn’t seem as conversational or human as she’d hoped. 

His hair was that same faded red with flecks of gray speckled throughout his dense coat. Pieces of toughened pinkish skin erupted from underneath, thinning the hair on his right arm, pectoral, and side of his face. He growled, hiding his burn scars from her sight and switching from his opposite position to leaning forward with his good arm in front.

“S-sorry…” Harlow squeaked, terrified that she’d offended him with her staring.

After a moment of stillness, clawed toes dug unapologetically into the earth as he crouched on his two elongated feet. Once their eyes were even, yellow stared into brown while they continued to maintain eye contact. Despite her rising fears, Harlow let herself breathe despite how raggedly it came out of her clenched throat. The red-haired werewolf leaned further into its front leg, crushing the twig further. She flinched, trying to think of a way out of this situation.

Whimpering, Harlow turned around and moved to run, but an almost human-like groan kept her where she was. The sound of bones cracking, shifting, and popping met her ears, echoing around them as the wolf-man’s flesh and bones properly knit themselves back together. She couldn’t imagine the visual, how disturbing and grotesque it must seem. Luckily, she couldn’t smell the coppery tang of blood in the slight breeze coming through the clearing. However, many clumps of red hair moved past her feet, caught on the wind and carried to the treeline.  _ Wait a minute… _

Harlow blushed, remembering that the towering werewolf wasn’t wearing anything when she saw him a moment ago. Her ears burned with embarrassment and she immediately knew her entire face had turned beet red. Grimacing, she moved to walk further away, even turning a bit so he could walk into the cabin without being seen.

“Slow your roll, Beatnik… and don’t move.” the wolf-man growled irritatedly, the underlying authoritative tone present despite his voice’s obvious disuse. Still, he sounded pained. 

He whistled, the sound incredibly crisp and ear-piercing to her. Harlow groaned, wanting to cover her ears, but not knowing how much she was allowed to move. Even now, she felt like she was treading on thin ice by simply breathing. 

After a moment, the sound of crunching leaves and light, sprinting footfalls came from behind her as their owner burst into the clearing. A low growl from right behind her made her heart beat twice as fast as before, especially when she felt a warm, moist breath on her bare hand. She didn’t dare look. The wolf-man chuckled, the sound moving towards the cabin. Then, he let out a quick, low growl in response and continued walking.

“If you don’t move, Jude won’t have a reason to tear your arm off. Make sense?” he added as he climbed the few steps and opened the cabin’s heavy, wooden door with a loud creak.

Harlow opened her mouth to answer but her breath caught in her throat. She choked on it, the loud door slamming and echoing around the clearing. She grit her teeth with terror. Somehow the silence was worse than any of the noises the wolf-man made in the middle of transforming back into a person. The wind provided a bit of sound, but without any animals or bugs, there really wasn’t much for it to affect, other than the plant life. “Jude” brushed his tail against her leg and came to stand in front of her, or rather sit. 

Unlike the wolf-man, Jude was an actual wolf with a white coat and dark, animalistic eyes. Although, he seemed intelligent, and he was clearly well-trained. With seemingly no other animals in the forest, any other wolf would have immediately taken her down and gobbled her up by this point. Harlow didn’t really want to think about that. Instead, she looked ahead, avoiding eye-contact with the animal. After all, his head was still twice as big as hers and he would easily be taller than her if he stood on his hind legs.

He tilted his head in consideration, something that Harlow would have gushed over had it been done by any smaller dog. Instead, the movement startled her, making her muscles tense. It felt like hours since she last moved.  _ I can’t take much more of this _ .

The clank and low creak of the door opening brought her attention back to the cabin and Harlow hoped with all her might that the wolf-man hadn’t returned with an ax to kill her while her back was turned. She could feel nervous sweat beading on the back of her neck and her chest heaved in preparation for another panic attack.

“Are you coming in or not? Storm’s coming and I’d think you’d rather not be outside when it does…” the wolf-man’s rough and tired voice came from the doorway.

Harlow turned around, seeing the tall redhead standing on the small porch. He looked just as ragged and stoic now as he did in the photo. An uneven, white bandage covered his injured arm, leaving a few of the burned areas exposed. Aside from that, he wore faded, moss green pants, scuffed combat boots, a tan jacket bearing worn patches, and a white tank top. His grey-speckled goatee covered the scarring on the lower side of his face but certainly did nothing to hide the peeved scowl he made towards her. If anything, it only emphasized it. 

He growled in response to her continued staring and Jude leapt forward obediently, pushing past Harlow and trotting up the steps like a domesticated dog. She moved to follow, keeping her shoulders low and head down so as to not offend him further.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer, Beatnik.” he simply huffed when she passed him, closing the door as soon as they were inside the dark cabin.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” she mumbled quietly, shifting awkwardly by the door while the wolfman moved further into the entryway.

“Because you are one ain’tchya? You reek of dusty old books and you wear the same sweater all those  _ weak _ people do,” he grunted, reaching for the old lantern on top of a nearby shelf and fumbling for a matchstick.

Harlow paused, looking at the older man’s face and seeing nothing but seriousness in them, “No… I don’t think so… A hipster, maybe? But I suppose ‘Beatnik’ is an outdated term for the culture I would identify with…”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of that one…” he grumbled, seemingly to himself, as he finally lit the lantern in front of him.

“From the look of things, I don’t suppose you hear much anymore…” Harlow responded, her eyes going wide when she realized what she just said, “I don’t mean—”

“I know what you mean,” he glared, “but keep in mind that this lantern is for  _ your _ benefit. I can  _ hear  _ and  _ see _ better than you, especially in the dark… Now, C’mon,” the wolf-man handed the lantern to Harlow and began gently pushing her forward, “It’s storytime.”

In the dim lantern light, the cabin seemed quaint, unlike the shabby exterior. There weren’t any holes or drafty crevices bringing in the cool fall air, destroyed furniture, or miscellaneous half-eaten carcasses littering the floor. So, she considered that a win.

Thunder cracked from outside, the sound of rain hitting the metal and wooden roof adding a bit of appreciated ambiance to the small space. Both she and the older man looked up at the sound, but he was the first to continue forward.

Harlow moved to take a seat on the couch but of course the large, worn cushions were covered in red and white fur. She grimaced, sitting down with her hands primly in her lap and her backpack resting against the cushion behind her. Her boot rubbed against the odd texture of the floor and she looked down, noticing that it had become nothing but wooden scratches from what looked like years of claw marks. In addition, there seemed to be no sign of electricity in the house, which was something that made her 21st century brain tingle with unease about the lack of cell service and wifi.

The wolf-man threw himself into the recliner, landing with a huff and sending a small cloud of dust bursting into the air around it. It at least made her thankful she didn’t have asthma. He looked towards her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Until now, she hadn’t realized that his eyes were no longer yellow but a deep green like the forest he inhabited.

“Let me tell you how this will go… First, I want to know who you are and why you’re here, then, maybe I will give you a bit of information if I deem it necessary, and lastly, you’ll get out of my woods,” the wolf-man numbered off his list with his calloused fingers.

Harlow nodded and watched him lean back further into the shadows, his half-lidded eyes looking like reflective green embers glinting unnaturally in the dark. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, her fingers lacing and unlacing together in her lap.

“My name is Harlow… Harlow Grisco. May I ask you yours?” she added hopefully.

“No,” he grumbled, ending the sentiment altogether. Still, there was a bit of recognition in his eyes that wasn’t there before

“Okay…,” she bit her lip and looked away for a moment, “I came here to find my great-aunt’s murderer, to avenge her so her death isn’t a mystery. I want to find out why.”

There was a long silence afterwards. The wolf-man turned away, his eyes blinking slowly and flickering to her every few seconds, just watching, maybe waiting for a guard or mask to drop. She didn’t think she could lie to him, and he almost seemed surprised she didn’t even try. After what felt like minutes, he turned back to her fully.

“Are you referring to Diana?” The sentence was spoken so quietly that Harlow almost didn’t hear it.

“Yes. Diana was my great-aunt,” Harlow nodded, looking to him when he abruptly stood up and walked into what seemed like a small kitchen and came back out a moment later with a bag.

The wolf-man sat back down and Harlow realized he was holding a packet of beef jerky. He took one out and looked at her, “I’m sorry for your loss. She seemed like a nice woman.”

“How did you know her?” she said without thinking, but instead of a short rebuttal, he tilted his head in irritated consideration, his beard shifting with each bite.

“About a month ago now, I was up toward the top of the mountains, fighting off a big cat of all things. It was one of those jungle cats with the dark spots… Leopard? Jaguar? It doesn’t matter—”

“There are  _ jaguars _ in these woods?” Harlow blurted, in both disbelief and shock.

The wolf-man growled at her interruption, leveling her with a glare, “There has been only one, and as we are in the Montana wilderness, it seemed a little hard to believe until it slashed open my arm,” he removed the bandage from the arm in question, showing Harlow the healed wound.

However, it looked  _ wrong _ , like the skin had been warped and crumpled, “Why does it… look like this,” she pondered aloud, slowly reaching out to touch it.

As she expected but hoped he wouldn’t do, he snarled at her, snatching his arm away from her probing fingers. His voice became tense, bordering on rage, “It looks like this because I found your little door into the real world, a long-distant future that revealed to me that I was nothing but a shadow, a  _ weak _ rouse given paper flesh.  _ This _ is what happened when I tried to put disinfectant on the cut. The skin began to  _ move _ , grow numb. I tried to wash it away but my entire forearm fell into the sink like I had no bones at all… I was able to dry it off, but now...”

Harlow gaped at him, understanding what happened to him, “Of course. You’re part of the photo, so you’re made of paper.”

“Only out there,” he growled at the potential jab to his weakness, “Definitely not here, so don’t get any dumb ideas.”

Harlow nodded rapidly, wanting to backtrack the conversation, “Diana saw you that night?”

The wolf-man paused at the change of subject and nodded subtly, taking a bite of his jerky and tossing the uneaten piece to Jude, who was laying placidly in the corner on a large cushion. He sniffed at the piece once and lazily ate it a moment later.

“She saw the whole thing, but she was quiet and let me do what I had felt was right. A part of me wishes I would have spoken to her first, to have understood what being so fragile in the world I thought I knew really meant. I had no idea how much more damage something as simple as  _ water _ could do to me,” he considered her and then looked at her backpack.

Harlow sat back, considering the older man’s words, “Would you be willing to at least tell me what you can about this place? All signs point to the murderer being here, wherever that is,” she gestured vaguely, not wanting to give the impression she was accusing  _ him _ of murder.

“I suppose folks around here call it ‘The Photo Realm,’ and those five pictures that are hung up out there are all connected in here,” the wolf-man began, pausing to make sure she understood.

“The exits used to be smaller, the size of polaroids. Last month, those big ones appeared so I was able to get through, not that I couldn’t before, but now it’s  _ easy _ ,” he took another bite, getting up to throw the empty bag away. Jude stirred, looking up for a moment before resting his head back down. 

He returned with a piece of wood, resting one side on Harlow’s lap while resting the other side on his own. He scratched a circle into the wood with a clawed finger, and then a much smaller circle in the middle. Finally, he slashed the remaining piece of the larger circle into six pieces.

“It’s like a clock,” he explained, “The exits lie on the outside of the circle, but can be any height off the ground. Some are impossible to reach, or are difficult to find.”

The aging redhead paused, “But the inside, the Interstyx, branches out and divides the regions with forests, the densest being in the center. There is a big tree there.”

“I’ve seen it,” Harlow nodded, “It seems dark… unnatural.”

Despite himself, he snorted, “There’s a lot about this place you would consider unnatural. Wait until you see the Betas…”

“Betas?” Harlow tested the name, speaking it as more of a question than a repetition.

“Yeah,” the wolf-man leaned forward, “the quiet, mindless ones. If you decide to venture ahead, you’ll find people who simply exist. They follow orders, not registering the world around them and acting out their small and meaningless lives repeatedly day after day, and year after year.”

“I don’t understand,” Harlow informed him, “Like, zombies?”

“What’s a zombie?” the wolf-man huffed, his green orbs narrowing further.

“Y’know...” she tried to mime being a zombie, but she wasn’t sure he would understand it, “The undead… They rise from the grave as a horde and mill around trying to eat people’s brains. They can’t really think anymore…”

“Hmm… We have those too…” he scratched his beard, “Northwest from here, actually… I was referring to something more like drones, worker bees. There are a few groups of them out there. The  _ ‘zombies’  _ being one of them.”

Harlow frowned and rubbed her temples, feeling a headache building up,  _ Now I have to cope with real-life zombies on top of everything else. _

“So, how about everyone else? Are there more werewolves around here?” Harlow sighed, not even mentally capable of being scared to ask questions anymore. By now the rain had long since stopped, the storm being strong but short.

The wolf-man titled his head, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lip, “No, I’m afraid it’s just me, but that doesn’t mean the other people here don’t have their own curses to live with. You’ll find that out soon enough…” He stood again, taking the board from her and setting it aside, “How did you get here anyway?”

Harlow reached into her pocket and pulled out the lens, letting him take it from her hand. Even from the quick brush of his fingers against her own, she could feel the papery texture of his skin. He cocked it back and forth, humming when the lantern light hit it in a way that sent rainbows across the walls around them, “You better keep ahold of this… perhaps even show it to the pastor in Foghaven, just north of here at the bottom of the mountain.”

She nodded, standing up and brushing the hair off of her shorts, “I will, thank you.”

“I’ll do you one better,” the wolf-man reached into one of the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a little drawstring pouch.

Pausing, he opened it up and removed a pair of dog tags from inside, stuffing them in another pocket and tossing the empty pouch at her, “Tie it to your belt loop and put it in your pocket,” he instructed gruffly.

After doing what she was told, the taller man led her to the door, opening it with a loud creak, “You want my advice?” Harlow nodded, looking to him once again.

He pointed to the left, “Foghaven is that way. Jude will take you as far as the woods go.”

Hearing his name, the large white wolf got up from his bed and trotted over, stretching his legs on the way. He looked up to the wolf-man and the latter growled for a moment. Jude huffed, walking outside and looking back to Harlow as though he were asking why she was still standing there.

“Thank you,” she nodded, moving to climb down the small set of stairs in front of her.

“Victor.”

“What?” Harlow turned around again, making sure she heard him right.

“Not Vick, not Vicky, none of that shit, got it? Victor.”

“Got it,” she nodded, “Thanks, Victor.”

Victor nodded, crossing his arms, “When you get there, don’t trust everyone at face value. ‘Course there are some decent people, but almost everyone has something to hide. Like you said, anyone here could be the murderer.”

Harlow nodded, following Jude towards the tree line. She knew now that the wolf-man was a friend, just like Diana had said, even if she hadn’t known him for more than a few seconds. In addition, if he’d wanted to kill her, he would have likely done it already.

“Hey, kid!” Victor called to her and she turned around one last time.

“Welcome to 1969, all year, every year.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I've got another chapter for all 21 of you! Thank you so much for taking a look at my work, and I hope you are getting some enjoyment out of reading it. At this point, I'm basically writing a very OOC Far Cry 5 fic. For those of you who play the game, you'll recognize many of the descriptions despite having different names.

**June 4th, 2019**

The sun had begun to set, nearing ever closer to the western peaks. Meanwhile, the phantom birds and other forest animals had grown silent, figuratively settling down for the evening. A cool wind came down from the mountains, mingling with the warm valley below and creating a growing layer of fog that settled neatly within the tall grass. It brushed against Harlow’s bare thighs, making her itchy. However, if she stopped to do so, she feared losing Jude. 

Thankfully, he’d stopped multiple times to let her catch her breath, but after what felt like an hour, and a few miles, of jogging through the undergrowth, she’d grown tired. In those moments of pause, she consulted her compass on which direction she was going in case she needed to find her way back unaided. 

More and more clearings dotted the landscape, some with ponds and small creeks, and others with wildflowers and rocky outcroppings. The treelines became less dense, leaving room for Harlow to see further ahead. Unfortunately, the growing darkness from the sunset greatly limited her eyesight. Again, she squinted down at the small circular object in her hand and noted that Victor was right. Jude was leading her North. 

Hunger was also becoming an issue for her. At the time, she hadn’t felt comfortable eating in Victor’s intimidating presence, and since then, Jude had been leading her toward the town at the bottom of the mountain. It had definitely been a few hours since she last ate.

Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food as she continued walking, nearly running into Jude, who had come to a complete stop, his ears shifting left and right. Harlow gulped, looking over the woodsy area around them. A small gust of wind rushed past them, making the large white wolf turn his head in the direction it came from. Leaves rustled from above and she looked up, only to find nothing waiting to jump down and scare her. It was quiet, too quiet.

There were plenty of trees, thigh-high grass, and large rocks around them, things to hide behind if they needed to. Harlow hoped whatever Jude was sensing wasn’t the jaguar Victor had told her about, or any other variant of large cat. She didn’t like her chances of fighting it off, nor did she trust the fragile camaraderie that she’d developed with Jude over the last hour-and-a-half.

Suddenly, a mass of long tan hair burst through the tree line in front of them, making Harlow scream in surprise. She threw up her arms to protect her face, but then she heard a happy bark. Bewildered, she brought her hands down to her sides.

It was a dog, that much was obvious. However, it didn’t seem to mind her presence. In fact, the long golden-haired shepherd in front of her seemed to only have eyes for Jude, who had instead turned tail and began going back the way he came.

“Hey, wait!” Harlow yelled after Jude, “Are you just gonna leave me here?”

The dog chased after the larger wolf, cutting off his path and attempting to initiate a game. Jude growled, outright snarling when the dog began brushing its tail in front of his face. Another happy yip and the dog bounded away, shifting its hips and trying to pounce on the averse wolf. It got close to getting on top of Jude, but he was quick to bat the dog away with his paw.

Dejected, the dog seemed to wilt, its tall, triangular ears drooping as it whined. Jude made a silent huff, lifting his head stoically and sprinting off into the woods. Harlow frowned as the dog perked back up and bounded over to her as though the last few minutes never happened.

“Sorry, your boyfriend seems like he’s a bit of a jerk.”

It sniffed her hands thoroughly, even licking her knuckles a few times. Meanwhile, Harlow scratched its head, reaching down and finding the thick leather collar underneath its thick golden hair. A silver pendant bumped her fingers and she was quick to read the name:  _ Sunny _ .

“Aww, you have such a cute name!” she gushed, “It really suits you, girl.”

Sunny wagged her tail, lifting a paw up and placing it in Harlow’s hand. Impressed, she completed the hand shake, “Wow, you’re really well-trained.” The dog ran circles around her, barking happily, “Could you show me where ‘Foghaven’ is?”

“Sunny!” a man yelled from beyond the tree line Jude had led her towards, “Where are you?!”

Sunny barked, running to where her owner was presumably yelling from. Not wanting to get left behind or lost, Harlow jogged after her. The tall grass tugged at her feet, threatening to trip her if she ran too fast. Breaching the tree line, she was able to run a bit quicker, but she quickly lost energy. Luckily, there seemed to be a light up ahead, and it certainly wasn’t the sun. It was  _ convulsing _ .

Harlow burst through the tree line, making the policeman just below her let out a high-pitched scream and nearly dropped his flashlight. “Ahh! I’m sorry!” she screamed back, tripping over a rock and rolling down the rest of the small hill she had been on top of and landing at his feet. A groan left her lips as she sat up, thankful that nothing seemed broken. Sunny came over to verify that, licking at her face until the teen moved to push her away, “I’m okay, jeeze.”

“Holy fuck…” Harlow looked up, seeing the disheveled officer staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers. She could tell he’d been running, likely chasing after Sunny. “I ain’t seen you around here before,” he added, his voice out of breath.

He seemed to be in his early-to-mid thirties, the years dragging him through the ringer judging by his permanent five-o-clock shadow and dark bags underneath his eyes. His mid-length hair was dark, slicking back behind his ears with the exception of a stubborn strand sticking to his sweaty forehead. Even his olive green uniform top looked to be dirty and soaked in sweat, like he’d chased Sunny across the mountains. A shield-shaped deputy patch adorned his shoulders.  _ Deputy, Foghaven, MT.  _ His name patch was a bit obscured from her, but she was able to pick out the name  _ S. TROUT _ from underneath the dirt splatters.

A loud crackle of static came from the deputy’s side, leading him to pick up the clunky corded radio from his belt. Harlow winced at its size, and she could understand why people used to call them “bricks.” Someone on the other end grumbled, their voice low and haggard, as though burdened by life itself.

“Uhh… Could you repeat that, Sheriff? I’m getting a lot of static out here, over,” Deputy Trout winced, tuning his radio a bit in hopes of getting better audio quality.

“I said, ‘What’s yer status, Scottie?’ There’s somethin’ brewin’ in th’ northeast.’” The man groused tiredly, sounding like every old sheriff in a western film.

“Sunny found a girl out in the woods, so you were right to send us out here after the storm. What’d you reckon we do now?” Deputy Trout asked, “She’s definitely not from ‘round here.”

“Well, I’d say do your job, Trout. Bring her down to the station and sort it out. Have Bishop help you, over and out.” the static cut out and the deputy sighed, turning back towards her.

“Well, you heard ‘im, miss. If you wouldn’t mind following me?” he asked, straightening himself up. His dark brown eyes hesitantly looked to her cloudy green ones and he rubbed his fingers together in a nervous tick.

“Uhh, sure,” Harlow tilted her head at him as he turned around and began walking away, wondering why he seemed so disheveled and helpless despite his occupation. He didn’t seem to have an authoritative bone in his body. While he didn’t seem dumb, he was certainly skittish, “Is it far from here?”

“Naw, it’s just over that hill, matter of fact,” he smiled slightly at her, trying to seem reassuring, “Foghaven’s a quaint little town. I’ve been living’ there my whole life, and what I guess is this other life, too.”

“Oh,” Harlow vocalized her surprise at how self-aware he was. Victor had been the same way, but then again, he’d been outside his portrait, “You mean you know about the portraits?”

“Yep,” he sidestepped a large rock, “Well, it’s hard not to when the year keeps repeating. I think Vincent called it a ‘time-loop’ or something’ like that.” 

“Who’s Vincent?” Harlow asked as they neared the top of the previously-mentioned hill.

“Aw shoot, sorry,” Deputy Trout nodded, accidentally bumping into her as Sunny pushed past them and ran ahead, out of sight, “You’ll probably see him around. He used to be some big shot city reporter, big ivy league graduate, real smart guy. He’s over the moon for Deputy Bishop. Always chasin’ after her like she’s some kind of angel. I mean, she’s a hell-of-an officer, but that might be going a bit far…”

“Hmm…” Harlow vocalized, unsure how to respond. Now, Deputy Trout seemed confident, even a bit arrogant. It was an entire one-eighty from his previous nervous behavior. Sure, she scared him before, but this was different. Making a mental note to analyze it later, she looked ahead as the three reached the top of the hill. 

Foghaven seemed quaint. There weren’t as many log cabins as she was expecting, but the little houses and businesses that were present along the mile-long stretch of roads seemed well put together. A few bars, restaurants, a mechanic’s garage, and a small grocery store sat along the main road, and Harlow noticed what was likely an abandoned gas station at the end of the small civilization. Despite its humble appearances, Foghaven seemed to have everything it ever needed.

A large steepled church seemed to be the center of the town, standing tall behind its wired fences and small graveyard. More little houses were within the fence’s borders, making it seem more like a commune than anything else. Harlow could spot a few people in white walking around, carrying baskets, and conversing with each other.

“Well, that’s Foghaven. Good thing we got here before sunset. It can be easy to get lost out here in the mountains,” Scott chuckled embarrassedly, likely remembering a time when he did get lost. He whistled to Sunny and the golden shepherd bounded back towards them, “Hey girlie… You did good today, huh?”

Harlow looked to Deputy Trout and he nodded at her before looking fondly at the dog, “She can be a real bimbo sometimes. I know the county got her cheaply and she’s not the best for being a mutt, but even I admit that she has her moments.”

“Yeah,” Harlow smiled, “She was trying to play with a wolf and he wanted no part of it. I think he smacked her pretty good, but she didn’t seem fazed by it.”

Scott stopped halfway down the hill, looking at Harlow with wide eyes, “Did the wolf have white fur?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, walking down until she stood next to the frozen officer.

“He didn’t try to hurt you?” he hugged himself, seeming nervous but also eager to hear more of her story, “I’ve seen him sometimes.”

Harlow kept walking, leaving him to catch up with her, “Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. How else do you think I got to be so close to where you found me?”

Deputy Trout went silent, biting the inside of his mouth while he contemplated her words. He remained so until they reached the Foghaven Police Station, a small wooden building with a dark green roof. It looked like it had initially been built out of a house, but was given extensions and renovations over time. Now, it mostly looked like an official, uniform, government building despite its size.

As they moved to walk up the steps, the sound of a loud argument became clearer and clearer. Scott sighed, “Here we go…” He turned to Harlow, wincing, “Sorry about this… Seems like Vincent got himself into another tizzy about something and decided to bother us, or more specifically, Deputy Bishop about it. Both of them are drama queens if you ask me…”

He yanked open the door to the precinct and nodded for her to go inside first. Sunny followed her inside and the dog went over to a plush cushion near the receptionist desk, rotating around it a few times before settling down with a tired huff. Harlow smiled at her, walking further into the carpeted area. There were a few chairs and a coffee table in the waiting area, but the entire room seemed vacant and rarely used. Luckily, the large potted plants seemed like they were being cared for.

Scott let the door swing closed behind him, leading Harlow over to the oddly-present steel-locked door she expected to see in an old maximum security prison rather than a backwoods police station. He nodded at it, working to unlock it with a large key, “We got it at a discount, even if it might be a bit much for our usual ‘clientele.’” Swinging open the door, Scott loudly cleared his throat, hoping that his co-worker’s lover’s quarrel wasn’t leading to anything he or the teen would rather not see.

Harlow’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the scene before her. A large woman looking to be at least seven feet tall sat at a desk that looked to be too small for her, while a shorter man was leaning over the same desk so far that his entire body was parallel with the ground and his clenched hands were the only things keeping him tethered to it. Belatedly, it occurred to her that the man was actually floating, not planking.

Like Victor, Jude, and Scott, she remembered seeing the couple in front of her in the portrait in Diana’s hallway. Although, Deputy Bishop seemed much shorter than she was now. Other than that, she still had the same green uniform top as Scott, and long black hair. Her brown eyes were narrowed at Vincent and her lips were set in a deep frown.

Vincent on the other hand, had the same slicked back brown hair and goatee, but he seemed a bit more unstable, strands of his hair coming down onto his forehead. Tattoos covered his bare forearms, all the way to his fingertips. His rolled-up sky blue shirt likely covered more, along with the pressed gray pinstripe vest, dark jeans, and boots he wore.

“I don’t want to ask you again, my dear Deputy,” he hissed at Deputy Bishop and she scowled, leaning back in her seat and crossing her thick, muscled arms defiantly, “Have you been spending time with that  _ redneck hillbilly _ behind my back?”

She scowled further, “I had to arrest him for his hundredth count of public intoxication while he tried to serenade me with ‘I’m a Believer.’ If that is what you’re referring to, then yes, I have been spending time with Elk Bowman.”

“I knew it!” Vincent roared, his feet raising a few more inches off the ground. He nearly lost his white-knuckled grip on Bishop’s desk when he moved to childishly point at her, “I knew it! I knew it!”

Deputy Bishop rolled her eyes, looking over to the clock above the door before noticing Harlow and Scott standing there, the latter with his arms crossed patiently, “Evening, Scottie. Oh! I’ve never seen you before, hun. I’m Deputy Bishop, but you can call me Raegan,” she nodded at them, pointedly ignoring her boyfriend.

“I’m. Still. Here,” Vincent enunciated, smacking the desk with each word.

Raegan frowned, turning around to face him, “I know you are sweetheart…”

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me! Not after you stole my favorite pens! And my special stationary notepads! They had my name on them and everything!” Vincent complained, finally letting go of the desk and hovering a few feet off the ground, visibly fuming.

Deputy Bishop responded with a deadpan expression, “Why would I steal your stationary?”

“And the pens?” Vincent crossed his arms, snarling in a way that Harlow thought seemed familiar.

“And the pens,” Reagan calmly placed her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her knuckles, watching Vincent create an even bigger scene. While she knew Scott was used to Vincent’s obsessive compulsive, and overly emotional, tendencies, she was embarrassed to subject a complete stranger to such a bad first impression, “Do I need to gentle you again? Is that why you're being so dramatic?”

“Dramatic! Me?! I’m being dramatic?” Vincent exploded, “ _My_ possessions go _missing_ , I find out you were with that... _bumpkin_! And as if you didn’t know, you _ate_ some of the cookies I was supposed to bring to Virgil’s sermon today. He called me a glutton in front of the entire service when there weren’t enough. It’s bad enough he picks on me for being with you, but now this!”

“Virgil is your brother. Of course he’s going to pick on you for dating. Hell, Virgil is so high-strung that I think he would frown upon premarital hand-holding if he could get people to believe in it,” Raegan stood, brushing imaginary dust off of her uniform pants, “Now come down so I can make you feel better.”

“No! You can’t manipulate me this time!” Vincent evaded her as she began walking towards him. The room wasn’t large, nor was the ceiling more than ten feet tall. At about seven feet tall herself, Raegan was easily able to capture Vincent’s leg despite how quick he was able to soar around the twenty-foot room. Harlow and Scott couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at the entire situation.

“Don’t be silly, Vince…” Deputy Bishop cooed, pulling him down until she could wrap her arms around his middle. He grunted and squirmed in her tight grasp, hissing profanities that made Harlow wince, “Stop bein’ a big baby!”

After a moment, Vincent began to grow silent. Little by little, his angry expression turned into something much more sappy. Instead of struggling to fight his way out of Raegan’s arms, he was trying to keep her grip on him. Soon enough, he was mumbling sweet words to her and trying to kiss her. Raegan seemed entirely used to it, gently redirecting his affections until he simply hugged her.

He seemed drunk, or drugged, or both. It wasn’t like Harlow really knew what either looked like other than what she’d seen in movies. If she was manipulating his emotions, then it must be addicting for him on some level.

This must have been what Victor had been referring to when he spoke to her about everyone in the Photo Realm having a “curse.” However, Harlow had begun to think of them as abilities instead, considering how some of them actually seemed to be handy. Clearly, Vincent’s ability was flight, while Raegan’s was the ability to manipulate one’s emotions, which seemed like a great ability for a cop, especially one in a dangerous situation. She wondered what Deputy Trout’s ability was. He must have one if everyone else does.

Raegan shushed Vincent when he began pleading for her forgiveness, patting his back before setting him down slowly, “It’s okay sweetheart… I keep telling you  _ again and again _ . What I do during my shift is none of your concern. Elk is a friend; a lazy, kind-hearted, and dumb-ass friend with pyrokinesis. While he might have some sort of crush on me,  _ you  _ are the one I like and want to be with. I love  _ you _ , Vincent Leeds, and I’d rather not let some stolen stationary, pens, and cookies come between that love, alright?”

“I love you so much, Rae. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Vincent gushed sentimentally, uncaring of the other two people in the room.

Harlow raised an eyebrow at the complete shift of Vincent’s mood, impressed at Deputy Bishop’s ability. If it were possible for the man to have cartoonish hearts in his eyes, he definitely would’ve in that moment. “I know you do…” she leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead and brushing a few pieces of his hair back with her fingers, “Now head on home. I have a job to do, okay?”

“Okay, but you better tell me everything,” he chuckled, sounding almost manic, “See you at home!” He backed out of the room, nearly knocking into Scott and Harlow while he tried to theatrically blow her kisses on the way out. “You look great today, Deputy Trout! And you! Your clothes are so bright!” He exclaimed happily at them before Scott closed the door in his face.

Wincing, the male deputy looked to his co-worker, “Are you sure you didn’t overdo it this time? He’s gonna crash hard when it wears off.”

Deputy Bishop shrugged, “Ahh, he’ll be fine. He always is. I can’t say he won’t try to make dinner, which you know is a disaster waiting to happen, but it should wear off by later tonight and he’ll be able to handle himself from there.” She looked to Harlow with a guilty expression, “Sorry to keep you waiting, hun. You look like you’ve been through a lot today. C’mon over here and sit down. Scott, why don’t you go wake Elk and send him home? He’s in his usual cell.”

“Are we running a hotel or somethin’ now?” Deputy Trout scowled, marching over to another set of double doors and swinging them open. Harlow could hear his footsteps echoing down the tiled hallway. After a moment, a cell door creaked loudly and the sound of voices became apparent, getting louder and louder. Soon thereafter, doubled footsteps returned and the deputy came through the doorway, followed by another person from the bar portrait: the inebriated man wearing a ripped flannel.

Although, Elk Bowman didn’t seem as inebriated, or happy for that matter, as he looked in the photo. Instead, he looked melancholy, like he was trying to come off as laid-back and blissfully casual, but was actually kind of depressed.

“Hey Rae!” he greeted cheerfully, moving to walk towards her until Scott clasped his shoulder and steered him towards the door, “Aw, c’mon Scottie, I just wanna talk to her.”

“Yeah, well, you reek of booze and whatever else you were rolling around in before you set Franny’s bar on fire. Besides, Vincent’s already been in here shrieking like the banshee he is, and I swear he’s got the nose of a bloodhound. I doubt Raegan would want to deal with that again today, yeah?”

Elk’s shoulders sagged guiltily, and he adjusted his baseball cap until the brim covered his sad green eyes. Even his moustache and goatee seemed to wilt. “Aww, shit, Rae… I’m sorry. I really am! More sorry than I’ve been for a while. It’s just my damn powers, always makin’ a mess of things...” 

“I know, Elk,” Raegan nodded sympathetically next to Harlow, “Same time next week?” she smiled a bit at her friend, waving while Scott nearly dragged him out of the police station.

Elk chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, “Yeah, probably…”

As soon as the two men were gone, Raegan groaned, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of her desk, beckoning for Harlow to sit there, “It is so hard being the only alert woman in this damn town…” she spoke so quietly Harlow wasn’t even sure she was meant to hear her words. She rubbed her eyes and looked to Harlow, smiling reassuringly and pulling out a yellow notepad. Poised to write down everything Harlow said in black ink, the deputy nodded again. “Alright, Miss, how about we start with your name…”

“Oh,” Harlow cleared her throat, jumping when Scott came back through the door and wheeled his chair over so he next to his fellow deputy at her desk, “My name is Harlow Grisco.”

Raegan immediately moved to shake her hand, Deputy Trout following suit, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Harlow.”

“Same, it’s nice to meet you, too,” Harlow responded, her mouth moving oddly around some of the words in her nervousness. 

“Now, we don’t want this to feel like an interrogation. There’s no need to be nervous. You can trust us, even if we might be a bit rusty,” Raegan added, and Harlow felt more at ease after touching the woman’s hand.

“Thank you,” she nodded at Raegan, clasping her hands in her lap, “I’m not from here, and I think you know that. I came from the outside world.”

Raegan tilted her head, “We figured that, but we didn’t want to assume. It has been at least twenty years since the last faction was added to the Photo Realm.”

“1996, I think,” Scott added and then sighed sadly, “I forgot how vibrant colors could be,” he reached a hand out to touch Harlow’s jacket but stopped himself midway across the desk, resuming his previous position sheepishly.

“Could you explain to us how you got here?” Raegan asked to dispel the awkwardness.

Harlow nodded, “Well, I found this lens,” she took the glass circle out of the pouch Victor gave her and showed it to the two deputies, “and I was able to see this place through it. In my world, my great-aunt got a larger version of a photograph of who I’m guessing were the people in this town. I remember seeing everyone I’ve met here so far… Then, because of the lens, I was able to step through this portal, and I was here,” Harlow gestured to the area around them, “but I was near the top of the mountains…”

Raegan continued taking notes while Scott looked amazed, “Wow… You saw  _ us? _ ” he gestured, “Then, how did you get  _ here _ ? Foghaven. You mentioned the white wolf...”

Harlow nodded at the deputy’s first question, “Jude, yeah. When I came out of the portrait, I just started walking down the mountain. I saw Foghaven in the distance, and went in that direction, but I got lost. It got dark, and really foggy. A storm was coming so I wanted to find shelter. I stumbled upon a cabin, and there was a man, Victor… He’s a werewolf, like in the old movies, and Jude, the white wolf… He was there, too,” she added, feeling like she was repeating herself, “Jude guided me out of the woods, and we ran into Sunny.”

Raegan abruptly stopped writing at the mention of Victor’s name, dropping her pen and gave Harlow her shocked undivided attention, “Wait. Victor  _ helped _ you? He  _ spoke  _ to you?”

Harlow frowned, “Yes? Is something wrong?”

“He spoke to you…” Scott parroted his co-worker’s words, “Victor doesn’t speak to anybody, nobody but Virgil…”

“Did he seem well?” Raegan asked, picking up her pen and continuing her documentation.

“How do you mean?” Harlow bit her lip nervously, “He said he got scratched by a jaguar or something a few weeks ago. Other than that, he shifted from wolf to human and ate a bag of beef jerky while I told him what I told you.”

“We’ll have to put up a bulletin about the jaguar, tomorrow,” Raegan nodded to Scott and he wrote it down on their schedule. She looked back to Harlow, “You have to understand how strange this is… We don’t hear much from him, let alone actually  _ see  _ him. Even when we do, he’s not human.”

“Why?” Harlow asked quietly.

The two deputies share an indecipherable look before looking back to her, “We don’t really know,” Scott starts, “Virgil, our pastor, is usually the only one who can really reach out to him. We can’t say for sure, but we think it’s something to do with his ability. He’s always been the strongest of us, physically,” he blushes, nodding for Raegan to continue. 

“We were even considering asking him to join the force here, but The War messed him up pretty bad. Since he’s been speaking to Virgil, it might be a matter of spiritual guilt that keeps him away from the rest of us,” Raegan adds, “But that’s neither here nor there, now… We are here to help you, not gossip. Is there anything we can do for you here?”

Harlow nodded rapidly, “Yes… My great-aunt was murdered by someone in the Photo Realm. I need to find out who they are, and what they were looking for. Nothing was stolen from her house, which means they didn’t find it, and they could strike again. Aunt Diana was given a severe concussion and sta-stabbed with a lawn d-dart,” she revealed, her eyes beginning to water at the truth of what happened. That familiar inner rage at the very injustice filled her body and she sat up straighter, wiping once at her eyes.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Scott placed his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture, “You don’t have to tell us everything now, but if you could maybe write it down when you feel up to it, it would better help us help you.”

Harlow smiled and nodded reassuringly, her eyes still a bit red, “Would you mind letting me borrow a notepad and pen?”

“Sure, hun,” Raegan gave her what she needed and Harlow immediately got to work writing down everything she knew about the case and what might be helpful to the deputies to know about.

“Victor told me to speak to Virgil,” Harlow added after a moment, “Would I be able to do that?”

“Of course,” Raegan nodded, “Although, maybe tomorrow I could take you over to his church. I’m sure he’s turned in for the night, and wouldn’t appreciate us breaking down his door this late in the evening.”

“Right, yeah,” the teen nodded, noticing that it was nearly seven o’clock already. “Oh!” she grimaced, realizing that she definitely wouldn’t be going back through the portal tonight.

“I suppose Virgil does know almost everybody in the Photo Realm, and he does have a good idea about how it works around here,” Scott looked over her notes, “So I can see why Victor told you to talk to him.”

“The dust only on our portrait is an interesting thing to note,” Raegan pondered, thinking it over, “What is it you plan to do with all of this?”

“I’ll talk to Virgil, but after that, I don’t really have any other leads. I’d like to talk to everyone in the Photo Realm if that is possible. At least anyone who might know anything about the case.”

“Hmm… maybe Virgil could help?” Scott nodded, taking another piece of paper and drawing out the same map Victor made for her, “This might be handy, too… It’s been decades since we’ve had a case like this...”

As before, there was a large circle divided into six equal factions, but now the sections had labels, “I memorized this years ago…” Scott adds, detailing the map with landmarks and years, “Here.”

Harlow looked down at the map, seeing _ “ _ Foghaven, 1969 _ ,” _ written in the bottom middle section. The northwest section was labeled “DeCerto, 1996.” Above that section, another was labeled “Darefield, 1978.” On the right side of the map, there were two sections with question marks for labels. However, what drew her attention the most was the topmost section labeled “Port Charlemagne, 1925.”

Harlow gaped, remembering the portrait depicting the gangsters, “I’m from Port Charlemagne. Not that year, but that place.” She looked to the deputies, but frowned when they winced at her.

“Sorry, Harlow,” Raegan tilted her head sympathetically, “but we’re… well… I suppose you could say that we’re at war with that faction. Those mobsters are a bunch of assholes,” she ranted, standing up and beginning to pace around the room. Her footsteps were heavy and she looked like she could punch through a wall given her tall stature and solid build, “I think they get bored and come over here lookin’ to stir up trouble and steal our food. They interrupt Virgil’s sermons and agitate the Extras. Lord knows those poor folks can hardly think for themselves, but they think it’s funny to throw them into mass hysteria.”

Harlow winced, remembering what she knew about the gang in question, “The Hallowind Harbor Gang.”

“You know your history,” Raegan nods at her, “That’s good… Yeah, we had Vincent do some investigating through our library’s newspaper archives. We know quite a bit about them, which gives us an advantage, so they stay away for the most part.”

Harlow nodded, looking back down at the map and pointing to the two unknown areas, “And these?”

Scott shared her frown, “We aren’t entirely sure. There is a huge chasm between our faction and the one next to us. Sometimes on quiet nights we can hear music coming from the other side, so there is someone over there, but we’ve never been able to reach them. It gets really cloudy and foggy there.”

Raegan nodded, “It’s so thick that we couldn’t even see anything from Vincent’s plane. We couldn’t even land in such low visibility. As for that other faction, it’s been abandoned for years. Only Extras inhabit it now.”

“Extras?” Harlow recalled Victor’s use of the word ‘Betas.’ “Are they people who just… exist? Victor called them ‘Betas.’ He told me they were like drones, or worker bees.”

“Yes,” Scott nodded, “Virgil calls them ‘Extras,’ as in people who were in the background of our portrait. The Photographer didn’t think they were important, and so gave them a ‘supporting role in the community.’”

“That seems a little heavy-handed,” Harlow crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair.

“They don’t seem to mind, honestly,” Raegan winces, “I don’t think they know what day it is half the time, let alone how they feel about the fact that they can’t think for themselves anymore. Virgil keeps them busy, though, which keeps them happy. So, we can’t exactly complain...”

“Do they have abilities, too? Or is it just those ‘the Photographer’ deemed worthy?”

“Virgil would agree with the latter interpretation, but truthfully, they don’t have abilities, unless you count only being able to speak certain phrases in any situation,” Raegan shivered, “Being in this place changed them so much… They used to be so full of life before all this, but now… Now, they’re shells of who they once were.” 

“Even the Sheriff?” Harlow looked to Scott, seeing him glance down at his silent radio.

“He’s different,” the deputy nodded, “It’s my ability… I’m the only one who can contact him now… but he’s the opposite of the Extras. He’s alert, like us… But, he doesn’t have a body to speak to. He says he’s in his office, but he hasn’t been there for decades now…” The three of them looked towards the warped glass door labeled “Sheriff,” seeing nothing on the other side but an empty desk.

Scott exhaled raggedly, getting to his feet, “I think I’m gonna head home… Sunny and I will be back here first thing in the morning,” he promised, grabbing his uniform jacket and leaving, “I will see you two tomorrow.”

“Bye, Scottie!” Deputy Bishop waved after him and Harlow repeated the sentiment more formally with the use of his title and last name.

After the two women heard the door close, Raegan turned to Harlow, placing her larger hand on top of the teen’s. “Harlow, I promise that we will help you bring whoever killed your aunt to justice. You’ll have to bear with Scott and I. As he said, it’s been a very long time since we’ve had a murder investigation.”

“Thank you,” Harlow replied sincerely, “Anything helps at this point.”

Raegan nodded with a finality, standing and pulling Harlow up with her, “Now then, Harlow! It’s much too late to send you back into the mountains, so how would you like to stay the night with me? Vincent has a huge house with plenty of extra bedrooms,” she baited her, “And I’ll make you somethin’ to eat! I know how much you young people love food.”

Harlow giggled and nodded, “That sounds amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't Vincent such a drama queen? He was definitely my favorite to write in this chapter. :D
> 
> There were meant to be a few more scenes of Harlow going to Vincent's and Raegan's house and staying the night. However, the chapter got to be twice as long as I hoped and then I decided to simply save those scenes and put them in their own chapter. So, that's basically what'll happen next.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I've got another chapter for you! I'm glad this story is starting to pick up steam a bit. For a while, I was worried that no one seemed to like it.
> 
> The mysteries keep coming in this chapter and the next one will have the long-awaited meeting with Foghaven's pastor, Virgil Leeds.

**June 4th, 2019**

When Deputy Bishop had offered for Harlow to spend the night at Vincent’s house, she neglected to inform her that the “house” was more along the lines of a three-story, ten-bedroom, rustic mansion, complete with an airplane hangar, runway, and a two-layer patio that surrounded the main house. Sturdy pine trees, large rocks, and yellow wildflowers accented the steps, creating a few set paths towards the dirt road where the two women were walking. A large lake behind the house created the illusion that it was floating. It looked like a log cabin on steroids.

Harlow’s mouth dropped open at the sight and she looked to Deputy Bishop, “I thought you said this was a house!”

Raegan winced, itching her neck, “I may have understated it a bit, but that’s what it is. Besides, Vince hates it when someone calls the ranch ‘a house.’ Sometimes I refer to it as that, just to get a rise out of him,” she giggled, ushering Harlow forward, “Sorry I made you walk all this way. If I knew you were coming, we could have ridden back in once of Vince’s trucks, or on horseback.”

Harlow’s eyes went wide, “Horseback?”

Raegan smiled, “Yeah, they don’t like going into the woods much, but taking me to the station is a walk in the park for them.” Then, she winced, “But now I have to ride Vince’s clydesdale because of… well… You can guess why… my secondary ability.”

Harlow nodded, not wanting to hint at referring to the older woman as “fat” due to her altered tall, muscular stature, “I’m just glad you didn’t have to carry me back here,” she joked instead, making Raegan laugh.

“I would have done it if you asked. You journeyed down the mountains in a single afternoon. I know I’d be tired after everything you’ve been through today. I’m still stunned that Victor decided to help you. I reckon you’d be in a very different position had he not done so, especially with that jaguar on the loose…” she frowned, nodding across the road to what looked like an overly extravagant barn that matched the exterior of Vincent’s rustic mansion, “That’s where we get most of our food from, the livestock, anyway. Virgil sends some of his Extras up everyday to tend to it. When Vincent doesn’t have any other chores, he tends to  _ them _ ,” she gestured, bringing one hand in front of the other to indicate the process of authority, “It gives him something to do, and I  _ know _ he likes giving orders.”

Raegan winked at Harlow, making her belatedly realize the double meaning behind her last words. Her face turned beet red and the older woman snickered, bumping her arm playfully as they climbed the front steps, “Let’s just hope he didn’t burn down the kitchen while I was gone. The last time he cooked for me, he made burnt soup. I didn’t think such a thing was possible, and if I’d known any better, I’d have sworn my friend, Elk, that man you saw at the station earlier, was helping him.”

The deputy moved to knock on the heavy-looking wooden door, but the moment her hand made contact, it swung inwards, revealing Vincent, who was wearing an embarrassingly frilly apron that had to belong to Raegan. Harlow definitely couldn’t picture the man picking it out for himself. He didn’t seem to mind it, though, lifting his arms out wide and standing on his toes to give his girlfriend a hug. 

All in all, he seemed much more put-together than before. His ash brown hair was neatly slicked back and his full beard was freshly trimmed. Even his boots looked like they’d been polished a second or even third time. Harlow couldn’t help but feel like she was throwing a wrench in what he’d hoped to be a night alone with Raegan.

“Welcome home, Rae,” he mumbled happily, “I’m making us a late dinner.”

Raegan chuckled nervously, “Are you, now? You know I said you shouldn’t do that when I’m not here. Remember the soup, and the watery mac and cheese?” She unfurled his arms from around her and gently pushed him back into the house. 

Thankfully the heart-eyed look was mostly gone from his eyes. Instead, he pouted, resentful about being treated like a disobedient child. “I’m gonna go see how it’s cooking. In the meanwhile, would you mind showing Harlow around the ranch? She’s gonna be spending the night tonight, alright?”

Vincent nodded, suddenly jumping up and deeply kissing Raegan, “Anything for you,” he smiled impishly and began walking away, leaving Harlow to follow him, “Come this way, Harlow. I’ll just give you the quick tour.”

★★★

Vincent Leeds, Harlow came to realize, was the personification of every pompous rich man in every novel she’d read in her high school English classes. Tom Buchanan was the first she immediately thought of when she considered the way he held himself, but there were many others.

However, he was charming, almost overly so, despite his clear arrogance. Any attention she threw his way seemed to delight him, and he seemed happy to soak it up like the driest sponge and prattle on about what he was able to achieve by the time he reached his stagnant age of thirty-two, a fact he mentioned while they passed his second two-story living room.

He was well-built, having the potential to build muscle. Instead, he was tall, yet lean. It made sense. His reporter background likely had him expertly running after leads, but after removing Raegan’s apron, she noted that his clothing was perfectly pressed and the rest of him seemed carefully groomed. So, Harlow drew the conclusion that he cared more about appearances than being physically strong. 

“I wanted to apologize for my poor behavior previously,” he began slowly, pressing the tips of his tattooed fingers together, “My temper can sometimes get the better of me.”

“It’s alright,” Harlow said to fill the silence, “I get like that sometimes, mostly with my parents,” she chuckled nervously, itching at her arm. Vincent nodded and returned her chuckle.

“You know, I was the same way,” his smile turned sour, like he’d bitten into something awful, “In fact, I was probably about your age the last time I saw my parents.”

“Oh…” Harlow winced, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say, and she definitely didn’t expect to hear his entire life story after only knowing him for five minutes.

“Don’t be,” he assured her firmly, his beard accentuating his frown, “They were truly terrible people, to me and my older brothers. Getting my scholarship to Harvard was the best thing that ever happened to me, at least until I met Raegan.”

“Oh,” she repeated herself, feeling inexperienced compared to him, “How was it? Harvard? It’s supposed to be the most prestigious school in the U.S.”

Vincent chuckled, as though he knew something she didn’t. He beckoned her along with a tattooed arm, leading her towards what she could easily guess was his office, a room that was twice as big as her bedroom, and so immaculate that she was hesitant to even step inside. An enormous mahogany desk sat on the far end of the room, with a large window behind it. She wondered if he liked having the sun cast his shadowy silhouette across the floor. It would certainly be intimidating. If he graduated Harvard like he seemed to, then it was likely a calculated decision. Perhaps even his beard was strategically grown to hide his younger features.

“I graduated summa cum laude, or ‘with a four-point-oh GPA,’ in layman's terms,” he introduced the framed diploma with a dramatic hand motion, “I know I don’t seem like the type, but it’s true, and it was damn hard to do,” he promised, a tense glint in his eye.

Underneath the diploma were pictures of Vincent shaking hands with other people, even some famous celebrities of the late fifties and sixties. Harlow recognized a few of them. There were a few presidents; Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Lyndon B. Johnson; some athletes in basketball and baseball uniforms Harlow couldn’t place or name; and movie stars in glitzy gowns and pressed tuxedos that looked more expensive than her entire salary.

“Oh,” Vincent smirked, realizing where her attention was, “Pretty impressive, huh? Yep, I interviewed each and every one of them. Loads of people wanted to be interviewed by me, but there were also others who never wanted to come within a hundred yards of me.”

“Why is that?” Harlow asked, turning to face her host fully. 

His eyes were the color of money. They were familiar in an odd way, but they glinted with such passion and fire that she couldn’t quite compare them to anyone else’s. He was unafraid to make eye-contact with her, making her shy away from the piercing gaze that seemed to break her down into her most fundamental traits. She had nothing she needed to hide, but the mild intimacy of the act made her uneasy, like he could recite her entire life experiences back to her.

“I have a way with people,” he began cryptically, leading her out of the office and down another hallway, “When they talk to me, they  _ talk  _ to me... They reveal things they want to keep hidden, even before they realize what they’ve said... I could get any information from almost anyone… and that’s not even my ability here.”

Vincent paused, turning to face her in the dimly-lit hall. His face was blank, giving her nothing in terms of tone, “I do hope I’ll get to hear your story, too. However, I wouldn’t wish you to resent me if you revealed anything embarrassing. Raegan would be most displeased.”

He turned away and kept walking, leaving Harlow to stare after him before catching up. She wasn’t quite sure if the man’s words were simply a joke, or a threat. Even so, she was floored by his sheer confidence in his interpersonal skills, but he was content to drop the matter for now and she didn’t wish for him to elaborate any further.

They entered a huge room and Vincent turned on the lights, revealing walls of books, both scholarly texts and fictional novels. An enormous fireplace emerged from the rock wall on the other side of the room. Plush sofas and armchairs with accompanying tables and rugs sat around the hardwood floor. It looked like the most comfortable trap, something that would ensnare Harlow for hours upon hours. 

“I figured you would like the library the most,” Vincent’s voice was quiet, yet curious, “You may feel free to return after dinner, but there is still so much to see.”

He led her down the second main hall, passing a collection of chandeliers made of antlers. Their lights danced off of polished glass cases containing old hunting rifles and detailed prints of old, biblical Renaissance paintings. Multiple Madonnas and depictions of baby Jesus spanned the halls, making her feel like she was stepping into a museum or a church. Harlow raised an eyebrow at the blunt symbolism until she remembered that his brother was Foghaven’s pastor.

Looking over to the man walking beside her, she tried to discreetly identify his tattoos. There were so many it was difficult to pick out any one specifically. He had some Latin words written on the back of his hand and an array of birds, weighing scales, and crosses on his forearm. His skin seemed like a page right out of one of her doodling sketchbooks.

“I did most of them myself,” Vincent glanced at her, “Some during my lesser moments, but they’re a part of who I am now,” he stuck out his hand and glanced fondly at the Latin words, “The seven deadly sins,” he explained.

Harlow nodded, “I like the birds.”

Vincent smiled, slicking a few stray hairs back off his forehead, “Thank you. I think they’re my favorite, too... Ironic, considering my ability.”

“Do you like flying?” she asked, wondering if he resented his ability, but he immediately burst out laughing, a flurry of warm tenor bell tones.

“I love it,” he spat, clearly offended that she would dare think he wouldn’t be. Catching his breath, he began to levitate a few inches off the ground, “Even just thinking about it makes me hover. See?”

Harlow couldn’t help but be pulled in by the older man’s enthusiasm, nearly giggling at the visual of him floating down the hallway.

“Wait ‘till you see the hangar,” he promised, speeding up and nearly leaving Harlow in the dust.

“Not so fast, Flyboy!” Raegan called out from behind them, making Harlow jump and skid to a stop, “Dinner’s ready.”

“Aw…” Vincent lamented, crossing his arms as he touched back down next to Harlow. He looked to her, “Perhaps later, if you’re up for it? I assure you, it’s worth the wait.”

Harlow nodded, turning her attention to Raegan, who only rolled her eyes and began walking away, waving her arm dismissively.

“You can show her your baby later, Vince.”

“Don’t be jealous, my dear,” Vincent tsked, walking ahead and linking his arm with Raegan’s. Harlow followed behind them, “Validity is naught but a hunk of metal compared to you.”

Harlow chuckled at the deputy’s deadpan expression, “I love you, but I damn well know you still clean that plane  _ daily _ .”

★★★

Harlow wasn’t quite sure what to think of the steak, potatoes, and broccoli, that Raegan had set down in front of her. It looked mostly appetising, thanks to the deputy’s quick thinking. Only a bit of the greens had been salvageable despite her best efforts, but at least the steak hadn’t been overcooked, and the potatoes not undercooked.

She nearly moved to dig in, but stopped when Vincent moved to say grace. Not focusing on his words, Harlow simply focused on the fact that she’d almost disrespected her hosts. Her thoughts distracted her while she cut into her meal and raised the first bite to her mouth.

While she hadn’t ever made it a habit in her elementary school years, Harlow knew what paper tasted like, and her steak tasted like paper despite having the same consistency as any steak from the real world. She tried to maintain a neutral expression as she choked it down, reaching her fork out to try a bite of potato.

Just as with the steak, the potato held the same bland, pulpy flavor of paper. Frowning, she set down her fork, looking at her meal with a new understanding. 

She was naive to think that any food from the Photo Realm would actually taste like what it was meant to be, especially after everything she’d learned so far. Victor’s encounter with water and the altered coloration of everything around her was more than enough proof that everything and everyone was made up of paper.

“Well, Rae,” Vincent began fondly, looking fondly at his girlfriend, “You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Do I detect a hint of cajun spice in the steak?” 

Raegan giggled, nodding, “I wanted to give Harlow something special. She’s had a hell of a day from what she’s told me, right Harlow?” The deputy looked to her and immediately became concerned at the teen’s downcast expression, “Harlow? Is something wrong?”

Harlow blanched, tilting her head to look at the taller woman, “I think there’s something wrong… I can’t taste any of it. It’s like paper… I’m sure it’s really good!” She blurted, putting her hands up defensively.

Both Vincent and Raegan’s eyes widened, and the latter was quick to place a calming hand on her shoulder. Immediately, Harlow could feel a slow pulse of serenity move through her body, leaving her composed and peaceful. She could definitely understand how someone like Vincent could become addicted to the deputy’s ability. His mood swings seemed to warrant frequent usages.

“Don’t worry, Harlow,” Raegan promised, her warm brown eyes full of regret, “I should have realized it sooner. We are from different worlds, after all… Did you bring any food in your bag?” She stood from her seat, towering over her and Vincent, “I can go get it for you.”

“Yes,” Harlow nodded, “I have some granola bars and other stuff… and water,” she winced, looking at the harmless glass of water in front of her with new eyes. The deputy nodded with a finality, striding down one of the many halls that branched into the dining room. 

After Raegan left, Harlow looked to the silent man across from her. His face was scrunched in thought, one tattooed hand covering his mouth while the other silently tapped his fork. The light from the antler chandelier above her cast odd shadows over his face, leaving his green eyes in shadow. Little by little, the silence became oppressive.

Harlow gripped her fork tightly in her hand, wishing she could’ve just eaten the home-cooked food like a normal person. She felt unbearably rude just letting it sit and go to waste. Her eyes pricked with embarrassed tears and she picked up another small piece of the steak, holding it tightly between her fingers.

Not wanting to face Vincent’s stare, she looked around the rest of the dining room. Mounted animal heads accentuated the crimson red walls around them. Gold trim lined the floor and ceiling while ivory cabinets held what she could guess was expensive china and ceramic. Some kind of red flowers occupied tall, ebony flower pots in the corners of the room. Even the mahogany table matched the rest of the room.

Harlow winced, tugging at her overly bright blue jean jacket and nervously rubbing her hands together. She felt so exposed, standing out like a sore thumb against the yellowed reds of the room.

“Interesting,” Vincent’s whisper spooked her much more than it should’ve, “Very interesting…”

Harlow jumped, looking at her previously silent host, “What’s interesting?”

Vincent leaned forward, his curious green eyes becoming lit from both the chandelier, and his own realization, “Would you mind holding out your fork towards me?”

Harlow frowned at the odd request, but did as he asked, only to realize the formerly matching pair certainly didn’t match anymore. “What the—” she cut herself off, her mouth gaping in awe.

Vincent’s fork was tinted yellow, just like everything else around them, but Harlow’s was a bright shining silver, just like what she was used to seeing in the real world. It glinted in the light, much more intensely than the other silverware. She dropped it on the table, completely shocked at its change.

“It’s been so long since these utensils shined that bright,” Vincent rasped, “I’d almost forgotten… Try the steak again!” he burst suddenly, pointing at the piece in her frozen fingers.

Harlow winced at the idea of tasting paper again but couldn’t help but comply when he jerked in his seat, sitting up straighter to get a better view of her. Hesitantly, she placed the piece on her tongue and began to chew. A flurry of spices and the taste of cooked meat filled her mouth and she gasped, nearly choking on it for a different reason this time.

“So, how is it?” Vincent clipped impatiently, tapping his pointer finger erratically on the table.

“It tastes like steak,” Harlow confirmed, shrinking back when Vincent erupted out of his chair and began to pace around the room. 

He stroked the short hair of his beard, casting glances at Harlow every few seconds. After a moment, he stopped, a slow smile growing ever wider on his face, “...yes.”

“What?” Harlow tried nervously, lifting her arms off the table to avoid touching anything.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Vincent chanted, turning back to Harlow, “You have a gift, the  _ best _ gift! You are the answer to everything!”

Harlow looked around the room again, avoiding Vincent’s eyes and breathing a sigh of relief when Raegan came through the open doorway, toting Harlow’s backpack like it weighed nothing, “What’s going on in here?”

“Look, Rae!” Vincent dashed over and grabbed Harlow’s abandoned fork, as well as his own, and brought them over for his girlfriend to examine, “It’s  _ real… _ ” he giggled in that same near-manic way he had earlier that day.

“Huh?” Deputy Bishop raised an eyebrow, clearly not following his thought-process.

“It’s real, Rae! Real! Harlow changed this fork, and the steak, so it became real. She could taste it,” he looked back at Harlow, “Right, Harlow?”

“Uhh… yeah,” she nodded slowly, making Vincent glower at her lack of enthusiastic agreement. Raegan looked between them both thoughtfully.

“Could you show me, Harlow?” Raegan asked thoughtfully, “Maybe try another piece, or maybe the broccoli?”

Harlow blanched, hating the feeling of being under that kind of pressure. She didn’t know how to repeat her actions, let alone do whatever she did on command. “I… I don’t...” 

“C’mon, just try it,” Vincent pleaded, his hands coming down to rest tightly on his chair. He gripped the back with white-knuckled fists, the dark ink of his tattoos popping out even more on his pale skin.

Harlow nodded helplessly, picking up a piece of the green vegetable with her fingers. She tried to re-trace her thought process from before. Like now, she’d been embarrassed and caught up in the futile wishes of being able to eat the food in front of her so she wouldn’t embarrass herself any further. Unfortunately, it worked a bit too well and she was now embarrassed for the opposite reason.  _ That’s it _ , she gasped, watching the broccoli gradually turn less yellow. Soon enough, there was a vibrant green piece in her hand that stood out amongst the others on her plate.

“Well, I’ll be,” Raegan gasped, “How are you doing that?” she came to stand next to Harlow, setting the younger woman’s bag down by her side.

“I just wished I could eat it, and it just sorta happened… I think,” Harlow winced, scratching her head, “To be honest, I’m not fully sure… but it worked, I think.”

Sensing their unspoken question, Harlow bit into the piece and began to chew, tasting the usual blandness of overcooked broccoli, “It tastes like broccoli, even if it’s a little bland…” she frowned, feeling a bit more tired than before.

Raegan frowned and looked to Vincent, who sheepishly tugged at his collar. She pinched the bridge of her nose and rolled her eyes at his mumbled apologies, “Well, at least we know you can eat something here.” 

Vincent suddenly reached his hand out and clasped Harlow’s tightly, making her jerk back into her seat and let out a quiet sound of alarm. She tried to break their contact, but his grip was unrelenting. Her pulse raced and she caught Vincent’s fiery stare. While not inherently predatory, it still spooked her quite a bit.

“Try it on me,” he demanded firmly, his brow set in a stern line.

“Vincent Leeds!” Raegan exclaimed, “What on Earth has gotten into you?” she reached around Harlow and pulled each of his individual fingers off of Harlow’s shaky hand, “Can’t you see she’s scared?”

Vincent glared at Raegan, slowly pulling his hands back. He rubbed them together, as though she’d slapped them for stealing from the cookie jar. Instead of saying anything, he continued glaring, the expression filling with resentment for the inevitable scolding he would receive once Harlow was out of earshot.

“Abilities can be draining. You know that as well as I—” Raegan started, walking over to Vincent, who had balled his hands into fists at his sides.

“She could help us! Maybe if we were real, we could have—” he cut her off hotly, gesturing at her midsection. His body levitated a few inches off the ground, barely denting the fourteen-inch difference between their heights.

“We’ve been trying for decades! When will you understand that it may not ever happen, Vincent?” she hugged herself sadly, reaching over and picking up Vincent’s plate of food, “The last thing Harlow needs right now is to feel like she has to cater to your whims like everyone else does. She’s going through enough as it is.”

Raegan handed him his plate and Vincent glowered, looking between the two women, “Fine,” he spat, storming from the room like an angry ghost.

After he was gone, Raegan huffed once, resuming her seat across from Harlow, “I’m so sorry, hun…”

Harlow, who’d remained silent throughout the entire scene, nodded, “It’s alright… I… This is all so new to me…”

Raegan held her hand up placatingly, “You don’t need to think about it now. All I ask is that you try to eat more, and if you can’t, your bag is right next to you…”

Harlow nodded, looking down at her plate and thanking the older woman when she returned her newly-tinted fork. A new sense of determination filled her as she stared at the sizable piece of steak and clump of potato pieces. She pressed the finger of her left hand into the remaining steak and closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that she could eat it and taste the same spices and flavors that her hosts sampled with ease.

After waiting a moment, she opened her eyes, only to see that the entire slab had changed to the colors she was used to seeing. However, her entire body seemed to sag with a sudden exhaustion that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Easy…” Raegan implored her, “There’s no sense in rushing if you’re just going to faint.”

Harlow nodded, touching the potatoes with her fork. This time, she started slowly, thinking about the texture and temperature before considering how the flavor changed accordingly. She couldn’t tell if she’d been sitting there for seconds or minutes, but she could see the yellowed tint fade from the pale chunks. The fork slowed the process down further, but she wanted to see if her newfound ability would work around it.

“Now that’s progress,” Raegan smiled, awed at her full plate of real food. 

Harlow considered it a win when she didn’t pass out during the remainder of the meal.

**June 5th, 2019**

Harlow wasn’t quite sure what woke her sometime past three in the morning, but she sat up in bed and checked her phone. The battery hadn’t depleted much from the previous day, but it was nearly at fifty percent. It would likely be fine for the rest of the day, but after that, she didn’t know what she would do. Time seemed to flow as it always had, her phone keeping track of the time she spent in the Photo Realm, but once that sense of time was gone, she would have no connection to the outside world. As of now, she wanted to find out what she could about the people in the Photo Realm, but she had two days until she needed to go back to work at The Coast. Depending on how far the different factions, or portraits, were from each other, it might take longer than she originally thought.

Something soft dragged along the floor outside of her temporary room, catching her attention. If the room hadn’t been completely silent, she doubted she would have heard it at all. The space between the bottom of the door and the hardwood floor became illuminated with a bright orange glow. Footsteps became clearer and clearer, crescendoing right outside her door before gradually dissipating, taking the light with them. Someone was walking around with a flashlight.

Carefully getting out of bed, Harlow donned one of Vincent’s spare housecoats, the long silky garment humbly given by Raegan in addition to the matching pajamas she now wore. The deputy would have given her some of her own sleepwear, but the size differences between them would have left Harlow swimming in them. Her other host, in comparison, was only a few inches taller than her.

The teen quickly tiptoed towards the door before immediately backtracking to grab her heavy metal flashlight. Thankful that it doubled as a blunt object and a light source, she resumed her newfound quest to identify the person walking past her room. Her door was mercifully silent, as was the floor. 

Harlow crept out of her room, noticing a fading light to her left. The rest of the hall was eerie, the antler-themed lights and taxidermied animal heads standing out with jagged shadows and haunting, glassy eyes. Instead of the intense red walls from before, they were now a deeper blue-green, the long skylight above her providing a small amount of moonlight. 

Gulping, she made chase, quickly stepping along the soft, narrow carpet in the middle of the hall. The light only shined on the floor, likely ensuring that the owner didn’t bump into anything. Fortunately for Harlow, she was able to see a silhouette of a flowing robe and feet because of it. Her fingers tightly gripped the flashlight, nervousness prevailing over determination. Still, she continued onward, keeping a safe distance away from the other person. 

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t quite tell who it was. She was pretty sure it wasn’t Raegan. They seemed smaller, and the deputy had more of a lumbering walk while this person seemed to have more confidence in their movements, like they’d taken these steps in the dark a thousand times.

The light flickered again ahead of her and Harlow froze, watching the light turn and go right, its owner’s shadowed form following behind. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, she crept closer, trying to remember the layout of Vincent’s house, but not quite being able to place herself when there were so few landmark items to spot in the dark. She looked around, belatedly considering how alone she felt in this dark house. Shaking with anticipation and fear, she crouched down and peeked around the corner where the light had gone.

It was the library, the chairs and tables casting harsh shadows along the sparsely-carpeted floor. The grand fireplace loomed ominously on the opposite side of the room, but what drew Harlow’s attention was the flashlight that had been set aside on one of the shelves to her right. Thankfully, it faced away from her, illuminating the person she’d been following as well as the rocky wall behind them and a few of the other shelves. 

It was Vincent, and he was fiddling with something on one of the shelves filled with books that had boring-looking titles, likely encyclopedias and collections of articles. Harlow curled herself forward, sneaking carefully into the room on her hands and feet to get a better look.

Now less than fifteen feet away from Vincent’s shoes, she was able to peek around his right side and see that he was searching the shelf for a specific book. The man grumbled quietly, running his fingers along the dusty tomes. After a moment, he let out a soft hum and tilted a small blue-covered book out of its spot.

Something made a dull click behind the tall bookshelf and Vincent moved to grab his light. Harlow shrunk back behind a nearby sofa, watching from the shadows as the man slid the entire bookshelf to the right, revealing a metal door that had been hidden behind it. 

A bright red padlock glimmered in the light and Vincent reached for it, expertly turning the mechanism until it, too, was unlocked. The door swung inwards, revealing a landing and a sloping ceiling leading downwards. Harlow gasped quietly, leaning too far forwards and kneeling too far on her housecoat that her knee hit the floor with a small thud. She scrambled back behind the sofa, holding her hands over her mouth to silence her breathing.

Vincent whipped around, sensing that he was no longer alone. His green eyes were narrowed and the entire lower half of his face displayed an intense frown. The deep blue robe he wore was undone, the tie dangling at his sides. He wore light blue-striped pajama pants, but both his chest and feet were bare. Unsurprisingly, he had more tattoos on the former, but Harlow didn’t dare pipe up to ask or look at them any more than just an initial glance. However, she was quick to spot more birds and what she could guess was an airplane.

Harlow panicked, gathering up her robe and creeping around the other side of the sofa. The light moved, nearing where she’d previously been. She shuffled further along the back of the couch, nearing the end and taking an extra few steps to bypass the side table and hide behind yet another shelf in the middle of the room. The light nearly caught her bare feet, but she moved them just in time for the beam to shine on the wall to her left.

Vincent let out a soft sigh and Harlow could picture him shaking his head dismissively, thinking he was being too paranoid. She could hear his slow footsteps padding along the wooden floor and the concrete landing. A light switched on, its sound followed by the quiet scrape of the bookshelf being pushed back into place.

Left in the dark, Harlow peeked around, not seeing any sign of Vincent or his flashlight. She breathed relievedly, standing back up and striding quickly out of the room.

Vincent was hiding something. Harlow didn’t doubt it now. While it didn’t mean he was responsible for Diana’s murder, it  _ did  _ mean that he knew something he wasn’t willing to let her in on. It was very likely that Raegan told him about her situation, why she was in the Photo Realm to begin with.

She didn’t know how deep their relationship was, though. It was possible that even the deputy didn’t know about this secret door just as much as it was possible that she did know and was keeping it from Harlow as well. There was also the lingering question of if Raegan was or would be willing to cover for her boyfriend if he was indeed the murderer. 

Harlow needed a neutral party, and her mind immediately went to Deputy Trout. He seemed nice, approachable, and didn’t seem fazed by his co-worker or her lover, but then again, she didn’t know him very well at all.

With too many questions and uncertain paths, Harlow decided to drop the matter for now, thinking to play Vincent’s possible game and see where it takes her. Maybe her meeting with Virgil would give her a better insight into his brother’s possible motives.

Even so, she nearly ran back to her room like the Devil was on her heels and didn’t stop until the cold lock on her door clicked into place, leaving her in absolute silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last scene was fun to write. It reminded me a lot of some of the survival games I've played in the past. Trying to sneak around those kinds of enemies is both thrilling and anxiety-inducing. 😨


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry about the delay! My classes have started up again, and tbh, it's been a lot getting back into the swing of things. Some of them are online, and some are not. Some days I'm in person for the class period, and other days I have to go in for the same class. It's like having to memorize two schedules. Even so, this is kinda my senior year, so I want to make it count.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys are still enjoying the fic, and I hope you enjoy the new developments that unfold during this chapter. It's also twice as long as it should be, but hey, it still works.
> 
> Chapter 8:  
> In which Vincent's a little bitch baby, Elk is a sadboy man-child, and Father Leeds is running a cult. Meanwhile, Harlow just takes it all in, because she doesn't know what else to do aside from consider if every adult is as big of a mess as the Photo People. 🤷♀️

**June 5th, 2019**

The second time Harlow awoke, it was to an intense heat and the smell of smoke. Her eyes flew open and she sat up, immediately noticing that there was no fire in her room, but that didn’t mean she was in the clear, either. After all, the smoky silhouette being projected onto the room’s curtains wasn’t exactly a good sign either. Quickly rolling over and grabbing her phone, she noticed that it was just before seven in the morning. It was much too early in the day for the sunlight to be so intense.

Donning her borrowed housecoat and striding over to the window, Harlow immediately yanked back the curtains, only to breathe in even more smoke. Sweat began to gather on her face from the increased heat, dripping from her brow onto her flushed cheeks. Caught off guard, she coughed, covering her mouth with the sleeve of her pajamas. While it didn’t help much, she was able to at least tell what was going on outside.

The front lawn was on fire, and even from the second story, Harlow could tell that the enormous, destructive plume that was devouring the dying grass was meant to be heart-shaped. What was even more surprising was the unsteady homeless-looking man who seemed to be trying to control the fire. However, his steps were uneven and he held an empty bottle of some sort of liquor in one of his hands.

After a moment, Harlow noticed the ripped flannel shirt and a memory from the previous day clicked into place. It was Elk Bowman, the alcoholic pyrokinetic who seemed to like Deputy Bishop as more than a friend. His ruffled tweed-colored hair stuck out from under his faded baseball cap and a calloused, tattooed hand shakily ran itself through where it was especially ratty. A bouquet of red wildflowers lie abandoned in the grass next to him, in danger of being swallowed up by the flames.

Harlow winced, looking at the spectacle before her and realizing how much of a bad combination it all was. For one, alcohol and fire don’t mix, at all, and it seemed like Mr. Bowman had indulged himself quite a bit before coming over and igniting the lawn in front of the house in some declaration of love. He seemed very off-balance and uncoordinated. Secondly, and most obviously, the lawn was on fire, and there didn’t seem to be anything around to stop the flames from spreading, aside from the drunk’s own ability. In the last few seconds alone, the misshapen heart had grown nearly a meter in diameter. Lastly, if the heart was any indication of the man’s intent, then Vincent was going to be doubly enraged. She could just picture the ex-journalist furiously floating over the other man, spewing multiple insults from his clenched teeth and resisting the urge to clobber him with the nearest gilded blunt object.

Closing the window with a loud  _ slam _ , Harlow nearly ran out of her room, opening the door at the end of the hall and traversing out onto the open-air deck that attached the master bedroom to the rest of the house. While it was an interesting design, the teen was a bit uncomfortable walking out in broad daylight while still wearing her sleeping attire. 

The wind sent a chill across her bare feet, goosebumps appearing up her legs. She shivered, using her fist to slam repeatedly into the sturdy wooden door. 

Harlow looked over the tall railing, seeing a dense layer of fog curling around the trees and rocks before settling around the small lake behind the house. The sun had just risen from behind the mountains, bathing the entire valley in a rich golden light. Pinkish clouds passed by above her in large fluffy-looking masses, the beautiful Montana sky opening up to welcome the morning. Despite the chaotic situation happening in the front of the house, the back of the house seemed infinitely more peaceful.

The door in front of her swung open, making Harlow jerk back to the present moment. Vincent stood before her, his tired ivy eyes narrowed with harsh shadows and bags. Small dark strands of hair hung over his forehead while the rest of his short hair was practically a nest atop his head. Bare arms crossed over an equally-bare chest with most of the tattoos on full display. Thankfully, he was wearing pants, otherwise she would have proceeded to have jumped off the landing in sheer embarrassment.

Harlow shakily gestured to the front of the house and Vincent raised an eyebrow, “Uhh...  The front lawn is on fire…”

“What?!” Vincent’s eyes became as wide as quarters and he immediately shouldered past her in a rush of snarled, inarticulate grumbles. Harlow pressed herself against the side of the house, not wanting to get in his way. 

Raegan’s hefty form appeared a moment later, dressed in her dark green uniform with her hair sopping wet and leaking water onto her shirt. “What’s going on?” she asked, watching her boyfriend throw open the door leading into the rest of the house.

“The man who was at the police station yesterday is burning a heart into the grass outside my window,” Harlow elaborated, following after the deputy when she immediately started jogging after Vincent.

“Oh, no!” Raegan exclaimed, when she began to smell the smoke, “No, no, no! Vincent, put that down!”

Vincent had stopped to wrestle a fire extinguisher out of one of the kitchen cabinets, gritting his teeth as he wielded it like a weapon. While definitely not the strongest in the room, he could clearly still hold his own despite his leaner build. Raegan stood in front of him, blocking his way outside. Meanwhile, Harlow nervously stood behind the bigger woman, seeing a manic glint in the man’s eyes. Instead of running at them, however, Vincent ran back and threw open the side door in the kitchen, leaving the two women to run after him. 

The side of the house was decorated with beautiful green bushes and grass, with a little cobblestone path in between. Harlow would have stayed to admire the simple, yet elegant landscaping if it weren’t such a chaotic moment. As it was, she was hardly able to keep up with Raegan’s lengthy strides. From a short distance, she saw Vincent fly up behind Elk and hit him in the upper back with the metal fire extinguisher, nearly sending the other man into his own fire.

“Bowman, you sonofabitch! How many times do I have to tell you? Raegan is mine!” Vincent yelled, throwing the blunt object away in favor of hoisting Elk up by his tattered shirt collar. The former’s feet left the ground and the drunk began to struggle, his feet kicking at the air but only making slight contact with Vincent’s shins. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Coming onto  _ my  _ property! My lawn is  _ ruined _ ! Why I oughta—”

He yelped, getting yanked backwards by Raegan, who forcefully separated the two men by letting Elk down with one hand and clutching her enraged boyfriend with the other, “Stop it, Vince! I mean it!” She walked nearly twenty yards away, keeping Vincent’s eyes off of the burning grass.

Harlow panted as she caught up, standing next to Elk where he sat dazedly in the grass. She hoped he wasn’t concussed, but it was concerning, the way he stared off into space, looking past the encroaching flames and into the stretching dark forest beyond. She had yet to go into the Interstyx, but she had a feeling that she would soon. 

“It’s all wrong, isn’t it?” he muttered, the words becoming lost in the wind and Vincent’s yelling. If Harlow hadn’t been looking at him, she might not have noticed he said anything at all, “‘e told me to do it, told me she’d be so happy… She was my peach dumplin’, my Rae of sunshine… It’s not right… none of it… She’s so sad now...”

“What isn’t right?” Harlow prompted Elk to elaborate, crouching so she could be at eye level with him.

“...So empty inside. Ev’rybody’s empty inside. It’s not right,” the miserable man reached into a torn pocket and pulled out a joint, making Harlow shy away from him as he lit it with his finger and took a drag, “I know Rae and I are meant to be… I know it in my gut… but something went wrong…” Ameteur flame tattoos curled around his exposed forearms, the engraved ink rippling and flowing like the fire he conjured. Harlow stared at them for a moment, mesmerized by their unconventional beauty.

The small twirl of smoke curled around him, giving his dark eyes a lighter, almost green color. His lips parted and he coughed once, “I dunno what… Doesn’t make a difference, I guess, but I gotta say… The Photographer’s a real sadist…” he added in his low backwoods drawl, taking a few more drags and sitting in silence, watching nothing in front of him.

Harlow frowned at his words, wondering how easy it would be to look up her new friends online and see if they led different lives than they did here. Maybe Elk and Raegan  _ did _ end up together, and something else drove a wedge between them. She came a bit closer to Elk, wrinkling her nose at the dead-skunk smell of pot and the stale scent of beer lingering on his clothes, “Do you think Vince had something to do with it?”

Elk looked back to her for a moment, his eyes looking deader with each passing moment, “Leeds doesn’t deserve anyone, least of all Rae… Ev’ryone ‘round here used to say things about him, about his  _ business… _ ‘He lies through his teeth,’ they’d say. I’d say it’s a forged diploma, phony pictures, and mass tax fraud… or something. I don’t know all the legal terms and such, but I don’t believe a single cent he has was honestly earned,” he snarled quietly, throwing the rest of his joint into the fire.

Harlow thought over his words as he spoke, considering her host and how wealthy and successful he seemed to be after mentioning his rough childhood and journalism occupation. Elk was right in thinking something was off, and if she hadn’t seen the man traversing down a secret staircase the previous night, she wouldn’t have agreed with him. Vincent seemed to be a man of high aspirations, or at the very least, a man who wanted to give the illusion that he had high aspirations. In addition, he seemed to have everything he ever wanted, aside from something the Photo Realm seemed entirely opposed to giving him and Raegan.

“You’re a good listener,” Elk piped up at her side, finishing a small anecdote about some cousin or other’s interaction with the younger Leeds. He stuck his empty hand out, “I’m Belkis Bowman, but ev’ryone calls me ‘Elk’.”

Harlow wryly smiled at his compliment, shaking his rough hand, “Thanks… I, uhh… I’m Harlow Grisco.”

Elk smiled, his goatee moving with his lips and revealing a noticeable gap between his front teeth, “Righteous! Now we’re buds, right?”

“Uhh… right,” Harlow made awkward finger guns at him and he chuckled, replicating the gestures with great amusement. 

“Shoo! It’s been so long since I’ve met someone who’d know how to hang loose,” Elk slapped his knee, “I mean, there’s this kid in the next faction over who’s a blast to hang out with. His sister’s a bit of a square, but at least he appreciates jamming and setting fire to those undead freaks of his. I tell you, if  _ my _ superpower was bringing folks back from the grave, you better believe I’d be sending them back via rock ‘n roll,” he grinned humorously, rocking back and looking up at the clouds.

Harlow was stunned. It was like Elk had nearly forgotten about his previous misery. Although, there was a slant to his brow, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. If she hadn’t been looking, she wouldn’t have noticed the downtrodden micro-expression. However, after a few minutes of quiet, Elk began to droop, his eyes becoming more cloudy and his face growing sour with dislike for the entire situation.

“Damn, that shit doesn’t last long,” he muttered sadly, his hands igniting in small red flames that licked around his palms and fingers. Elk frowned, patting his clothing until he was sure he didn’t have anymore pot on him, “Damn… I gotta go two factions over if I wanna get more. I was so blitzed last time I nearly went the wrong way,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and looking off in the distance. Another indecipherable emotion crossed his face, but it was gone too soon for her to properly see it.

“No! Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Vincent howled from further away, making Harlow turn her head back towards where Raegan was nearly crushing him in her grasp.

Unlike the previous day, Vincent had tears rolling down his face. Choked sobs left his blubbering lips as he restrictedly tried to punch his way out of Raegan’s hold. Raegan’s eyes were teary as well, the woman biting her lip as she held him, “No, you stop it! I will not have my two favorite people trying to kill each other!”

Vincent’s entire face was red, his tears rendering his face wet and blotchy. Ragged breaths went through his diaphragm, his bare gut echoing them as he curled into himself, “My lawn…” he cried weakly.

Raegan huffed a laugh despite her mood, “If the Realm doesn’t fix it by the end of the day, you can have some of the Extras replace it with the snap of your fingers.” Vincent grumbled at the barb, but fortunately stopped trying to hit her.

Harlow frowned, reaching to pick up the discarded fire extinguisher. With a small grunt, she was able to muscle the old thing into spraying a thick cloud of foam onto the patch of lawn that had turned into a crispy dark brown color. Afterwards, she threw it aside and turned around to survey the adults, thinking about what Raegan said. The older woman nodded at her in thanks for putting out the fire.

Perhaps the Photo Realm corrected itself after things were changed too much. It would explain how everything seemed so sustainable, even after decades.

“Hey!” a male voice called out, making everyone turn towards the road.

Deputy Trout and Sunny ran towards them, ignoring the horticulture in favor of jumping over it and stomping through it enough to make Vincent bitterly huff in his girlfriend’s grip. The dog made a b-line toward Harlow, licking her fingers and making an effort to do the same to her face before the teen urged her to behave.

“What happened here?” Trout panted, jerking with his thumb in the direction of the police station, “We could see it all the way down to the church. Virgil said not to worry, but you know… I thought Vincent here had got to cooking again… and it’s not the first time that he’s—”

Raegan rolled her eyes, setting Vincent down but keeping her arm around him so he couldn’t try attacking Elk again, “We’re fine, Scott. Elk just had too much to drink and decided to burn me a love note into the grass, sending Vince into a fit, as you would expect. Harlow just took care of the fire, but Vince hit Elk over the head with the extinguisher first, and I’ve yet to really see if he’s alright,” the deputy recapped to her co-worker, standing aside so he could go check on the other man.

“Elk-y, buddy…” Scott chuckled sadly, “If we weren’t stuck in here, you would have pickled your liver by now. You’ve really done it this time, though…” he reached his hands up and lightly slapped his cheeks, “Are you with us, Bowman?”

Elk’s murky eyes cleared and he scowled, pushing the deputy’s hands away with his forearm, “I’m fine, Scottie. Stop slappin’ me.”

“Oh good,” Vincent chuckled nasally, tears still lingering in his eyes “Maybe you could slap some sense into him, or maybe arrest him for trespassing on private property, destruction of said private property, public intoxication, endangerment… Shall I go on,  _ Deputy _ ?”

“Well, if I do that, then fair is fair. I’d be charging you for assault and battery,” Raegan clenched Vincent’s shoulder, making him wince at her strength.

Everyone frowned and Scott opened his mouth a few times, looking like his namesake while he tried to find his words, “You remember we don’t really arrest people anymore, don’t really need to?” he looked to Harlow, smiling a bit before looking back to Vincent, “It’s no more than a few days in a holding cell and sending them off with a slap on the wrist. We’re all stuck here anyway, so we shouldn’t fight amongst ourselves. And besides, nobody got hurt—”

“Fine! You can keep your petty punishments,” Vincent spat, shrugging out of Raegan’s arms and realizing his minimal clothing. A scarlet blush began working its way onto his face and he ran a hand through his hair to slick it back some more, “I’m going back inside, and  _ he _ better be gone before I leave for Virgil’s sermon, because the next time I see him…” he turned around threateningly and stomped back towards his house, leaving the others staring after him.

“Aww, but it was such a good show,” Scott called teasingly and the man huffed, flipping him off as he kept walking.

“I still don’t get what you see in him,” Scott crossed his arms, shaking his head knowingly as he looked to Raegan.

“He makes me laugh,” Raegan gave him a secret smile, “Among other things.”

Scott grimaced, “Spare me the details, for all that is holy…”

Harlow couldn’t help but giggle, but stopped herself when she glanced at Elk, noticing his silence. She didn’t think she’d ever seen someone so miserable. He sniffled, his perpetually rosy blush spreading to his eyes as they began to water. It hurt to watch him fall apart, like a dumpster fire she couldn’t look away from. The man gritted his teeth and looked down, bunching his white-knuckled fists in the grass. Orange sparks danced around his arms and he gasped, hugging himself before his ability acted up without his permission.

Harlow looked back to Raegan and found the woman watching them with unshed tears, “Let’s take Elk into the station… I… I’ll talk with him…” the female deputy promised, walking over to gently lift the distraught man from the ground, “Harlow, Vince agreed to take you with him to see Virgil. We’ll be along after we sort this out…” 

Sunny bounded ahead as Scott began walking back towards the road, the latter throwing a generic, ‘see you later’ over his shoulder. Raegan followed after them, her long quick steps letting her reach them after only a moment.

★★★

Not much later, Harlow sat in the passenger seat of Vincent’s blue, 1969 Pontiac GTO convertible, thinking about what Raegan might have said to Elk to let him down nicely. Perhaps it was something she could ask about when she saw her later. 

The new car rumbled down the dirt road, and she could see Vincent’s mouth tip down at the sight of the dust beginning to cover the shiny blue-gray exterior. His eyes squinted ahead and he gritted his teeth. Harlow tried to keep her expression neutral, not knowing what to say or do to dispel the awkwardness. It was only a ten minute drive, and yet she felt like they’d been driving for much longer.

Ever since she met Vincent, there had been some kind of awkwardness to the situation they’d been in. Of course, they hadn’t met at the best time, nor had their last interaction held any better circumstances. Belatedly, it occurred to her that none of it had been because of her. 

Vincent picked a fight with Raegan. Vincent spent most of her tour bragging about himself. Vincent tried to force her to use her newfound ability for a selfish reason, and just now, he had picked another fight, forcing Raegan to subdue him for a second time. It didn’t seem healthy.

Harlow didn’t know how to act around someone like that, an adult like that. He was possessive, acting like a selfish brat when he wanted something and couldn’t immediately get it. In addition, he  _ was _ hiding something. She’d seen it herself, and if what Elk said was true, then he was likely hiding quite a bit more than a secret door. In the meantime, however, she was just grateful he didn’t ask her to use her ability on him again. 

It had taken a lot out of her, causing her to fall asleep quickly despite her unfamiliar surroundings. Thankfully, using her ability didn’t make her feel sick, but it was a kind of internal soreness she normally associated with the muscle fatigue that came from being at the gym too much. Harlow imagined it as a sort of muscle, something she’d likely build up over time.

“They only sold 108 of these cars, you know?” Vincent spoke tersely, his dollar green eyes flicking over to her once before looking back to the road.

“Oh,” Harlow blinked at him, “I didn’t know… It’s impressive that you were able to get one, then… I’m sure they’re nearly impossible to find in my time...”

Vincent tilted his head in acknowledgement, momentarily frowning at some unspoken thought, “Hn... I suppose you’re right…”

By now, they had breached the central area of Foghaven, coming up on the main compound of the church. The large chain-link fencing was much taller than she’d originally thought. Standing at least three times her height, Harlow would have a hard time climbing over it due to the oddly present barbed wire. Then, if she was able to do that, she would have to bypass a few homeless-looking people dressed in long coats acting as guards in front of the church’s doors, their heads shifting back and forth in an almost rhythmic pattern. 

Raising an eyebrow, she looked around the rest of the area as the convertible parked along the road. More people in what she supposed passed for white milled around the graveyard and under the trees on the opposite side of the beaten path leading up to the church’s doors. Some wore grey robes while others had long shirts and pants. Their movements were methodical as they carried baskets of fruit and hung up their laundry. Aside from their different ratty hair, skin colors, and body types, she could hardly tell them apart, but they seemed as happy as they were efficient, and she couldn’t find a problem with that, even if her inner artist despised how plain they all looked.

At her side, Vincent grimaced at their carefree attitudes and cheery smiles, tilting his head at her to exit the car. His eyes darkened, all emotion leaving his eyes as he turned to face forward. Wordlessly, Harlow went, grabbing her backpack and shutting the door behind her. Just before she moved to walk towards the church, he looked back to her, leaning over the center console, “I hope you find what you’re looking for…”

Then he was gone, his speedy U-turn kicking up enough dust to make her cough as he sped back the way he came. Harlow scowled, adjusting her backpack before marching up to the looming metal gateway that divided the people in white from the rest of Foghaven. Large metal letters arched over the top of the open gate, the sun reflecting off of them in a way that had Harlow squinting to read them.  _ Church of the Holy Photographer _ , Harlow read, silently mouthing the words in confusion, belatedly remembering how Scott referred to the Photographer, the person who made the Photo Realm, as some sort of God.

She walked through the thin, yet sturdy, archway, and as soon as she stepped foot onto the stone path leading up to the church, a blonde woman in white immediately ran up to her, eagerly reaching for her hands, “Welcome to the Church of the Holy Photographer! Have you met The Prophet?”

Harlow blinked in shock, her entire body freezing up, “Uhh… no? That’s why I’m here—”

“Great!” the woman interrupted her, her grin widening, “May you be guided by His word! Have a blessed day, and praise be to The Prophet!” she swivelled around and went back to wherever she’d come from, her movements almost robotic.

Harlow gaped in confusion, feeling like she wasn’t supposed to be here. Her eyes darted around as she continued up the thankfully short path, not wanting to be surprised by anyone else. The guards narrowed their eyes at her as she approached them, both crossing their arms in sync. At a first glance, she would have guessed they were homeless. Then again, everyone seemed almost cultish, and the woman she’d just met was a disturbingly red flag.

Both men weren’t very large, scraggly beards and longer unwashed hair covering most of their faces while long, dark gray coats concealed their lack of muscles. Ratty trousers and old boots covered their lower halves. However, something metal glinted at her from the side of their midsections, and she decided to not push her luck.  _ They have guns! _ She panicked internally, looking around at the barbed fences and people in white. Before, she thought the chain-link fence was to keep people out, but now she wasn’t sure it wasn’t the opposite.

“You are not permitted to enter. The Prophet doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” one of the bearded men barked, continuing his routine of surveying the area. 

“Oh,” Harlow took a few steps back and they seemed to blink and subtly shake their heads, “Sorry. When is the sermon? Would I be able to speak to him after?”

Surprisingly, they ignored her, looking like submarine scopes as their heads pivoted around. Harlow frowned, waving her hands around to catch their eyes. Nothing happened. “What day is it today?” she asked them, resting her hands behind her back.

Just as before, they said nothing. Harlow squinted at them, her hand poised under her chin as she considered their reactions. Carefully, she stepped closer to them and they looked at her again.

“You are not permitted to enter. The Prophet doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” the same man repeated himself in the exact same tone. At that moment, she concluded that they were completely insane, but rescinded her judgement upon remembering what her new friends told her the day before. These were Extras.

Harlow stepped back again and watched their tense postures ease, both of them looking around. She tried to remember what she could about Extras. Victor said they didn’t register the world around them, that they were quiet and mindless, puppet-like in nature. Raegan mentioned that they didn’t know what day it was half the time, unable to even think for themselves. They made sense now that she’d seen some. It was like she was talking to a brick wall.

The teen moved to speak again, but the door to the front of the church yawned open in front of the Extra guards, revealing a man in a gray suit, white shirt, and a black clerical collar. Thin, wavy brown hair came down to his shoulders, framing a scruffy goatee flecked with gray. All in all, he looked as he did in his portrait, with the notable exception of his yellow-tinted glasses. 

However, what stood out the most to Harlow were the man’s eyes. Unlike Vincent’s pale green eyes, his were an intense shade of emerald, a few shades away from an unearthly hue. They bore into her own pale green eyes, making her feel exposed. He tilted his head at her and raised his arms out welcomingly, a carefree smile widening his lips.

“Harlow Grisco, I presume. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Father Leeds, but you can call me Virgil. Everyone touched by the Photographer’s divine light often does...”

She froze, her eyes widening, “What? How do you know my name?”

Virgil shook his head amusedly, gesturing for her to enter the church and closing the door behind them once she was inside, “I believe you’ve heard the little… nickname used by my faithful.”

Harlow nodded, watching as Virgil began walking down the aisle, “They called you ‘The Prophet?’” she followed after him, taking in the interior of the admittedly large space.

_ The Church of the Holy Photographer _ wasn’t the most beautiful church she’d ever been in, but she could tell it was built by hand and loved by many. Each board was placed intentionally, and the floor was well worn with the marks of churchgoers. Some of the pews were scuffed and scratched from decades of small children carving initials and doodles into the wood. Old chandeliers hung by thin strands, providing a little bit of light to the old place. An old piano sat in the far left corner, behind a wooden stool that acted as a pedestal for Virgil to speak on. A set of two candelabras stood near the stool, likely to give him some extra light while reciting verses.

Virgil turned to face her, sitting down on his stool and motioning for her to sit on one of the frontmost pews, “Indeed, I have been blessed with foresight, to be a prophet for The Photographer. I know of your quest to avenge your great-aunt by seeking out her murderer,” he passively nodded at her, “and you’ve come to me for guidance.”

“Yes,” Harlow nervously agreed despite herself, feeling uneasy that someone could know so much about her without even meeting her or having anyone tell him about her, “A man named Victor told me to come see you, and your brother agreed.”

Virgil hummed, standing up and beginning to pace around the stool, “You must forgive me… There is much to explain, and so little time to explain it…” For a moment, his eyes looked far away, but he turned back to her and they looked clear.

“How about starting from the beginning?” Harlow prompted, leaning back into the hard wooden pew and setting her backpack down by her side.

Virgil paused in his pacing, looking at her wryly before continuing, “Very well… In the beginning, 1925 to be more exact, a very special camera was used by a very special person, The Photographer. In taking a photo of… an especially rabble-rousing group of vigilantes, they created what we call The Photo Realm. We don’t know who this person was, but they continued to append more photos for seventy-one years, consequently adding to our world. Currently, there are six factions, but I’m sure you’ve learned that. This specific one is a somewhat-accurate depiction of Foghaven, Montana in the year 1969. The others are in different places, and in different times. Some of us don’t even have color. Again, I refer you to the vigilantes from 1925. Shall I continue? I wouldn’t wish to overwhelm you...”

Harlow nodded, “I understand you so far. Is there anything you could tell me about the people here? If you know why I’m here, maybe you might know of someone who might’ve done it.”

Virgil paused, sighing and sitting back down, “I like to think the best of my neighbors, no matter who they are, no matter where or when they’re from. Of course, some seek out sin more than others, and there have been rare occasions I have been asked to listen to their confessions. If anyone in this place killed your great-aunt, then they weren’t from Foghaven, that I can be sure about. They just don’t have a motive, and they wouldn’t know the way out. I have never been outside of this Foghaven, but even the people in the other factions are passive and have made peace with their new lives.”

####  “But are there any who aren’t at peace?” Harlow held her hands together in frustration, wanting any sort of indication or direction to take, “Raegan said the Hollowind Harbor Gang comes here to steal and stir up trouble. They don’t sound very satisfied to me.”

“No, you are correct. Idle hands and all that… Their sins are many, but I must allow them to indulge at times, for they simply don’t have the provisions that we have here. Even so, I wouldn’t think they’d be murderers. Disturbers of the peace? Most definitely. Their pride, among other things, makes them resentful and ruinous, but they risk an agonizing existence if they didn’t seek us out for our resources.”

“They don’t die?” Harlow wondered aloud and Vincent agreed.

“As with replicated life born from photographs, we cannot die as you can. In some ways we are invulnerable, but in others, we are infinitely more vulnerable. Since we aren’t real, we cannot die, but we can starve, wither into paper shells. We hardly feel anything as it is, but in my experience here, hunger feels the worst. Thankfully, the Realm has blessed us with sustenance that replenishes every year, and enough hands to harvest them.”

Virgil smiled indulgently, pressing his palms together in front of his chest, “I can nearly see the question in your eyes. Yes, my faithful can be difficult for others to speak to. The Photographer merely blessed them in a different way. They are the backbone of our little community, providing support for those of us who must guide them. I knew many of them before our rebirth, and I am both honored and humbled to be able to guide them in this life as much as I did in our last.”

Harlow nodded understandingly despite her reservations about the robotic strangers outside, “When you say ‘blessed,’ are you referring to your abilities? The foresight, and your brother’s flight. The deputies also have their own… Mr. Bowman and Victor as well…”

Virgil stood again, moving to light the standing candelabras with a match he pulled out of his pocket, “Yes, my apologies… The gifts He has given us are shaped by and have shaped us in this new existence. I believe The Photographer knew us outside of this place, getting to know us and blessing us with abilities befitting our personalities and attitudes. As you know, Deputy Bishop is a strong and supportive individual, but in reality, she was shorter and unable to use her strength to its fullest. As such, The Photographer blessed her with a new body and ability to temper even the most stubborn of hearts. My brother is fortunate to have her,” he looked to Harlow as he mentioned the younger Leeds, his perceptive gaze catching her small wince.

Virgil had finished lighting the candles, coming to stand in front of Harlow, “My brother’s pride and wrath has frightened you, my child… and for that I must apologize… Vincent was loved by few, feared by many, and misunderstood by all in his previous life. He spent many years trying to build up what our torn family had broken. It left him looking for approval wherever he could find it. He was easily preyed upon…” Virgil wiped a tear from his watery eyes, “I wished I’d been there for him, but we were separated when we were all young. Vincent  _ is _ loving and kind, but he isn’t perfect, and sometimes not even good, but he is my little brother… Despite what you might think, I don’t believe Vincent would kill anyone, let alone your aunt.”

Harlow nodded, not knowing what else to say to such a heartfelt speech. Even if it seemed to go against most of what she knew about Vincent, it did provide a bit more insight into who he was from another’s point of view. Even now, it was rather suspicious Vincent wasn’t here with his brother. The two Leeds seemed to be close, and yet, something was off.

“Ah!” Virgil looked at his watch and made a quiet sound of surprise, “While it’s not the latest sermon I’ve ever given, but I’d say we’ve kept them waiting for long enough. Would you mind opening the doors? I have to fetch something from my office.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Long time, no see! I hope there are still a few people out there who are willing to read this work. I'm glad to be getting back into this story after dealing with school stuff for almost an entire semester. I thought I'd write a little bit over my Thanksgiving Break, so here we are. Happy Thanksgiving to all the Americans reading this, and happy normal Thursday to the rest of you.
> 
> In this chapter, we are fully introduced to the Hallowind Harbor Gang. Part of the reason it took so long to get this chapter out was because of my lack of experience writing 1920s slang. So, I hope it isn't too corny for you all, and my apologies if it is. This is still very much a work in progress that I will go back and edit once the initial draft is finished.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy Chapter 9!

**June 5th, 2019**

While she couldn’t comment on the quality of the sermon itself, as it was her first time going to one, Harlow had to admit that it made for great people-watching despite her spot in the front. It was almost amazing how many Extras were able to fit into the relatively small church. If she were to guess, there must have been at least fifty adults, and nearly fifteen children. 

The women, both older and younger, sat primly on the pews, donning old, white dresses with unraveling lace. While bits of dirt may have flecked their legs, arms, and faces, their hair was brushed and their shoes were spotless. 

Meanwhile, the men were split between the pews and the walls. From what Harlow could tell, the men who had families were able to sit with their wives and children while the single men, whose number outweighed that of the women, stood vigilantly on the sidelines. Belatedly, she noticed that many of them were guards, much like the ones she encountered outside. They wore the same dark coats, ratty trousers, and boots, with small variances in their muted and grungy hues. Barely-concealed guns sat ominously against their hips under their long coats, making Harlow consider for a second time if she was actually where she needed or wanted to be.

By far, however, Harlow had decided that the children were the strangest out of all the Extras. While they seemed as happy as everyone else in the room, which, despite their apparent lack of bathing, was very happy, there was still something off about them. The younger ones laid against the backs of the pews and gently kicked their bony legs out in an unspoken rhythm, nearly grazing the pews in front of them. Their eyes were placid, likening them to little dirt-caked porcelain dolls, and aside from little mumbled phrases and peaceful, soft singing, they, for lack of less related phrasing, were as quiet as church mice. 

During the sermon, their eyes filled with an odd, artificial wonder upon hearing Virgil’s words, and for a few moments, Harlow wondered if they’d been made aware for a few seconds before returning to their “supportive” role in the photo. Although, the older ones weren’t much better despite being somewhat cleaner than their younger counterparts and their voices sounding louder in the din of quiet murmurs, still staring at her with blank, lifeless eyes.

The Extras were a perfect audience, clapping at the end of Virgil’s speaking points, parroting him when he urged them to, and even singing when he asked members of the choir to lead a hymn. The pastor could have told them anything and they would have gone along with it, believing every word to be true.

Harlow didn’t try to sing along, not wanting to embarrass herself while figuring out the lyrics, but she did clap when others did, and the Extras seemed to be placated by that. At first, they shuffled around her and gave her space, seeming to look  _ through  _ her, as though they didn’t register her presence at all. However, once Virgil started introducing her to some of them, their eyes seemed to clear a bit and they smiled and nodded at her, animatedly talking in their oddly-scripted dialogue until everyone was seated.

She had to admit that Virgil seemed different when he addressed the Extras, his words soft, yet firm, both meaningful and impactful. He began the sermon while standing on a stool, but had already paced down the aisles multiple times less than twenty minutes later. His eyes found hers during a few of those times and he grinned at her. Passion flowed through his words, sending waves of enthusiasm through the devoted crowd. There were some tears, and more than a few declarations of love for Virgil, all of which he smiled shyly at and waved aside, redirecting their gratitude towards the Photographer. Harlow could definitely see how and why the Extras wanted to listen to him.

“While I have spoken on this topic time and time again,” Virgil began after settling everyone down from his last point, “It definitely doesn’t hurt to have a reminder of the sincere gratitude those of us with gifts sometimes forget to mention.”

Harlow perked up, realizing that he was speaking about the basics of the church’s, and the Photo Realm’s, practices for her benefit. Virgil looked over to her, pressing his palms together in a thoughtful motion, raising the tips of his fingers to his lips before continuing.

“You tend to our crops and livestock, you clean our homes, you  _ assist _ our loyal deputies in keeping our community safe,” he gestured to himself, “Without you, I would have nothing. I, and the rest of our gifted brothers and sisters, would be lost in a desert of our own ineptitude. You might have merely been in the background of our illustrious portrait, or in the far reaches of our Lord’s thoughts, but they didn’t forget you,” he grasped one of the guard’s elbows and nodded at him. The other man seemed to blink back tears before shakily nodding in return, a quiet prayer on his tongue. 

“They are watching us,” Virgil continued, “each and every day of our fixed lives. You  _ matter  _ to them, just as much as any of us,” he raised his voice slightly as he paced to the back of the church, coming to another climatic point of his speech. “They brought you into this Realm for a reason. The Photographer Loves You, loves all of us, and we mustn’t ever forget that!” 

The pastor rushed down the aisle to stand atop his stool. “We must live every day to the fullest in order to show our gratitude, to never wallow in our own sin. We must live for the people, our friends and family, who were unable to join us, who couldn’t see past their capitalistic  _ greed _ and live as we do,” he spat the sin as though it burned his tongue, but was quick to speak his last phrase with a juxtaposingly soft murmur, “full of love and virtue.”

A few people yelled and others cheered, “Praise be to the Prophet!”

Harlow could feel her heartbeat quicken and her chest tighten. Virgil’s words seemed to linger in the air, buzzing excitedly around her. She felt like she was on the verge of two things: a panic attack, or jumping out of her chair and yelling with the most enthusiasm she’d ever had in her life. Not wanting to embarrass herself by interrupting the pastor, she tried to act like he hadn’t activated some odd variation of her fight or flight response. 

Virgil’s eyes found hers and they somehow seemed  _ brighter _ , like a shining emerald. Harlow watched the right corner of his lip twitch humorously underneath his full beard and she looked around her, noticing that most of the congregation looked to be in a similar state of tightly-coiled emotion. Between the two, she now had a hard time believing Virgil was naturally such a good public speaker. There was something he wasn’t telling her about himself.

Before she could think about it further, Virgil turned towards her, gesturing with an open hand in her direction, “You might have noticed a new face among us this morning. She has come from a long way to be here with us today. The Photographer, with all his divine glory has blessed her with the most extraordinary gift out of everyone I’ve seen yet... Come, Harlow,” he beckoned for her to join him, his hand reaching out for her in offering.

Harlow’s mind and throat immediately clammed up, all previous feelings of enthusiasm and excitement gone as anxiety overrode them both. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, expression gaping at Virgil in shock. Everything felt so rigid and hot inside herself. Despite herself, she shakily stood up and walked over to where the pastor stood, nearly stumbling over an Extra’s shabby boot on her way.

The teen didn’t want to look at the commune before her, to see their blind devotion fixated on her. She simply couldn’t see past the uncanny valley. They weren’t real enough for her to really see them as people. Like ghosts, aliens, or robots, they were simply masquerading as real people, much like the photo people who were aware. However, these ones weren’t as good at it.

Virgil’s arm came around from behind and gripped her shoulder, making her jump, “This is Harlow Grisco,” the prophet began, only for most of the congregation to clap at her introduction. After they ceased, he raised his palms for their silence, simultaneously releasing Harlow from his grip and proximity. “The Photographer has gifted Harlow with His touch. She can take objects from our Realm, and make them  _ real _ . No longer shall they be rendered limp and brittle from water, nor blackened and ashen by fire. Nevermore shall colors be dulled and yellowed with age, nor shall our minds be circular and vacant.”

The priest looked to Harlow and she blanched further, hoping Virgil wasn’t going to expect her to try making every single person in the church real, “We have prayed for fifty years for someone like you, someone who could end our yearly cycle and guide us forward. We are not real… but we could be.”

Harlow took a step back, eyes nervously darting to the exit, “Uhh…”

Suddenly, the doors she was looking at flew open and a loud rattle of rapid gunshots echoed throughout the church. The women screamed and the children cried out in fear, dropping to their knees and using the pews as shields. 

Meanwhile, Harlow threw herself behind one of the large support beams and crouched, daring to peek her head out and see what was going on. Oddly enough, Virgil’s guards remained calm, coming to stand in front of the defenseless members of the congregation. The priest remained passive, letting his hands come together in front of him in a placating gesture.

“Love thy neighbor,” he spoke sternly, tilting his head at the guards. To Harlow, the words didn’t sound like a quote, but rather a reminder or an order.

A peal of laughter echoed throughout the church, quickly followed by three more. Footsteps came forward, the sound of shoes clacking on the worn wooden floor.

“Well, well, well, well, well! If it ain’t my favorite parishioners packin’ heat! Any more thoughts coming through the ol’ noodles? No?” a man giggled and the sound of someone being slapped in the face immediately followed. Less scared and more curious, Harlow stood up, seeking out the intruders.

It was the Hallowind Harbor Gang, but it also wasn’t. These men were monochrome, just like Virgil had told her. Their skin was a pasty shade of light gray, while the rest of their formerly colored clothing and eyes ranged from the whitest whites to the darkest grays. Black seemed to only be reserved for their pupils, but two of the men had eyes like sharks, the brown rendering so dark that the photo couldn’t differentiate between the two shades. Only a flicker of light showed that they were aware, that their toothy smirks weren’t hollow like the Extras around them. Harlow had been in Port Charlemagne long enough to know each of the four gangsters by name. 

James McNamara, or “Rookie” stood closest to her. His build was lanky and his shaggy mop of red, curly hair couldn’t be covered by his fedora. His nose was particularly blunt, like he’d ran into something too many times, but judging by the perpetual goofy smile on his face, he didn’t seem to mind it. He also looked no older than twenty, which somewhat shocked Harlow the longer she looked at him. Apparently, he was the friendliest one of the bunch, but “twice as dim as the others,” which, coming from the locals who practically idolized the Hallowind Harbor Gang, must have been an understatement. 

In fact, the beanpole of a man now gazed up at the ceiling with his mouth yawning open, looking at the single bullet hole one of them had made just a few minutes earlier. His own tommy gun dangled in his hands, the barrel tilted toward the floor.

“Lookie there, boss! Ya’ bullet went right through the roof…” he commented, an awed timbre in his voice.

“Don’t it always?” the leader of the gang, Jay “Riot” Helcross, questioned, tilting his head up to see what McNamara was referring to but then shaking his head, going back to his task of harassing the guards. The one he previously slapped was rubbing his red cheek and looking close to returning the favor, “Ah, forget it, Rookie… Just go back to what yer doin’. Drift over there or somethin,’” he pointed to the far side of the pews, near Virgil’s office. The pastor became tense as the young man drew closer to the small room. Jay smirked, narrowing his eyes at the behavior. 

“You haven’t seen any snakes around here, have you, Father Leeds?”

Virgil grimaced, hating the very idea of finding one, let alone all thirteen of the former circus trouper’s infamous pythons or vipers slithering around inside the commune, “I haven’t. Why do you ask?”

“Because  _ my pets _ have been stolen!” Jay shouted, beginning to pace around the huddled churchgoers, “And here I was thinkin’... Why not let bygones be bygones… I’ve been here for ninety-four years, you’ve been here for fifty… It’s all numbers at this juncture, and besides…” he slapped one of the guards on the back, grinning at him, “What’s a little destruction of property and mutual love for guns between factions? Hm?”

Jay snarled, shoving the guard so he fell back onto his rear, “But no! One of  _ your _ people stole  _ my _ one shred of happiness in this damn place.” 

A similar-looking man cleared his throat, drawing Harlow’s attention and reminding her about who he was. It was Jay’s older brother, Jedediah “Revel” Helcross. The younger man nodded apologetically at his brother, amending his statement, “One of the two shreds of happiness in this damn place.”

Jay shook off the awkwardness with a satisfying crack of his neck, “Where are they, Leeds? They certainly didn’t waltz outta their cages on their own.”

“Then search, if you must, Mr. Helcross,” Virgil spat exasperatedly, “But I can tell you  _ my  _ people want nothing to do with such sinful creatures.”

Jay narrowed his eyes, “Speaking of sinful creatures… Where is Vincent?”

The young gangster pretended to look around, completing the action with an exaggerated movement, “Hmm… I don’t see him. It doesn’t seem like ol’ Vinny to skip a sermon…”

“He had errands to run,” Virgil fumed, the lie coming out quick and obvious.

“Errands, you say?” Jay chuckled, “Being a good little boy for his big brother, like me? Is he?”

From further away, Harlow could see that Jay wasn’t very old either, likely only in his mid twenties. He radiated a youthful energy she had yet to see from any of the others inhabiting the photos, flitting to and from each side of the room and invading the personal space of everyone he could get close to. However, horrid facial scars marred his otherwise handsomely roguish face, like someone had tried to cut it off with a knife. So, for those Dark, shark-like, eyes to glide over the other men in the room, gauging their expressions with an eerie curiosity, it was an unsettling sight. One wingtip shoe tapped an uneven rhythm before suddenly stopping, “Something’s different, ain’t it? They look different to you?” he finally said, turning to Jed, who tilted his own head in consideration.

Jedediah was older than Jay by a few years, and suffered from an undiagnosed medical condition that gave him a persisting flat affect, which perfectly contrasted against his brother’s seemingly perpetual grin. Seeing the two of them together reminded her of Sock and Buskin, the iconic opera masks depicting the two ancient symbols of comedy and tragedy. Aside from those differences, the two brothers had the same height and build, and their hair seemed to be a similar shade of light gray, likely red in the real world. From behind, she would have identified them as twins.

“You think they’re pulling wool over our eyes?” the straight-faced man looked around at the church’s guards, his significantly lighter eyes scanning the crowd of people before looking at Virgil, “You hidin’ something from us, preacher? Your goons seem rather hinky today...” he voiced dispassionately, his tone sounding just as monotone as he looked.

Father Leeds merely blinked at them, not missing a beat, “Ah, I am unsure of what you mean. Your provisions are waiting outside as they are every time you stop by—”

Jay came over to stand next to his brother, pressing his hand over Virgil’s mouth, “Enough bumpin’ yer gums… Yer a terrible liar, Father Leeds… Now spill it! What are you hiding from us?”

Harlow winced, ducking back to hide behind the pillar, only to feel the press of something narrow and hard at her back. Carefully, she turned her head to see what was behind her and realized that she’d forgotten about the fourth gang member, Jack “Rip” Ackerman.

He was older, somewhere in his late thirties, forties, or even early fifties. The Port Charlemagne locals told her that he would change his answer every time someone asked, so there was no way of knowing the truth. Some suspected that his nickname came from Jack the Ripper, as not much was known about his whereabouts prior to his activities with the Hallowind Harbor Gang. 

In fact, very little was known about him at all, aside from the fact that he was a compulsive liar who preferred to remain in the background and let his younger counterparts conduct their operations. There was also something about him owning a ventriloquist dummy, with some speculating that it was somehow haunted. It was around then that Harlow stopped listening to her co-worker’s outrageous stories, as they had delved into even stranger conspiracy theories after that point.

Now, she could see that Jack’s eyes were like Jay’s: inky black from the outside of the iris to the inside of the pupil, nearly inhuman, but just enough to get by in this strange realm. He grinned at her, his uneven dark eyebrows shifting into a confused expression. Darker hair peeked out from his fedora as he lowered his gun and reached his hand out for her to take.

“Leave me alone,” Jack said quietly, clenching his offered hand slightly.

Harlow raised an eyebrow at his words, refusing to take his hand. He knelt beside her, reaching for her hand again, “I’m not gonna hurt—” 

The gangster cut himself off with an abrupt burst of laughter. He grimaced, nodding thankfully when Harlow hesitantly put her hand in his, “Please,” he choked, another bout of laughter escaping his clenched teeth.

Harlow let him pull her to her feet, pondering over the stark contrast between his words and actions. He seemed restrained, his voice not coinciding with anything he did. She wondered if his compulsive lying was now being used against him in the Photo Realm.

“We’re going away to say goodbye to my enemies,” he told her slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. Harlow nodded, realizing the forced lie for what it was.

Once the two of them were within earshot of Virgil and the other gangsters, they turned toward them and stared at her with wide eyes. Virgil grimaced at the four men, “Ah… Yes… This is Harlow. She tells me she’s from Port Charlemagne as well.”

“Really?” Jay narrowed his eyes skeptically.

“But, Boss!” James protested, stepping up to Harlow and poking at her overly blue jean jacket, “She don’t have no color like us! How can she be from Port Charlemagne?”

Wincing at his incorrect grammar, Harlow opened her mouth to answer, but Jay beat her to it, “You know, Rookie, even though we are black and white, that doesn’t mean I can’t see color anymore,” he spat, the venom-filled words ricocheting off of James’s ability to sense the irritated undertones he was sending the younger man, “She’s clearly from Outside, the real world.”

“Hmm…” Jedediah considered her, coming forward and lifting her sleeve between his fingers, “Unless our Realm has a new faction, I would have to agree with you, Jay.”

“I’m from the ‘real world’ Port Charlemagne,” Harlow affirmed.

“And what are you doing here, Harlow?” Jay asked.

Harlow squared her shoulders, trying her best to look the gang leader in the eye, “Someone killed my great-aunt,” she looked slightly to the left, only able to stand their eye-contact for less than two seconds, “And I’m gonna find out who it was.”

“Hmm…” Jay’s expression became a fake pout, “Oh dear me, how sad…” he leaned into her personal space, letting her see his facial scars up close, “And what makes ya think a gumshoeing dame like yerself could find the person who bumped off your aunt?” he whispered, leaning back and walking back toward the front of the church, leaving her standing in shock. Doubts began to swim through her mind, the weight of how out of her depth she felt pressing down on her.

“Oh,” Jay turned around, gesturing that he just remembered something, “But If you want my advice, which you should…  _ That _ man,” he harshly pointed to Virgil, “has had it far too good in this hell for far too long. We can smell his lies from our faction, and don’t even get me started on baby brother. As much as it burns me to say it, the guy’s a better grifter than I am, so I wouldn’t let either of them play you for a patsy… Ol’ Vinny Lee already has a few screws loose in that oversized noggin of his… Would be a darn shame if he slipped up one of these days...” he added, stepping back and gesturing to the rest of his gang. Harlow looked back to Virgil and the pastor looked  _ very _ uncomfortable.

“Boys,” Jay announced loudly, “I do believe it’s time to blow this joint. While we didn’t find  _ what _ we came for, we did find something new. As for you,  _ Father _ Leeds… I want my snakes returned to me in one week, that is if you haven’t already sacrificed them to your so-called Photographer,” he held up a finger, nodding with a finality, “Or you’ll understand what it really means to be an enemy of the Hallowind Harbor Gang, and no one, not even your little god in the sky will be able to stop me.” 

With that final threat, the four gangsters left the eerily silent church. All around Harlow, the parishioners stood up, dusted themselves off, and went about their static business as though nothing had happened. After a moment, she could feel Virgil’s hands on her shoulders, gently guiding her to a nearby pew and helping her sit down on the worn wood.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke softly, kneeling by her side so he could look into her downcast eyes, “I see a dark path ahead of you and I can see that you are overwhelmed even now.”

“I can’t believe I stood up to him like that. He’s gonna kill me. Y-you said they weren’t murderers!” Harlow rushed through her words, all of them coming out in a single breath, as she began to hyperventilate. 

Virgil took her hands in his own weathered ones, “Their guns don’t kill us... never have… I wouldn’t put your life on the line, living as you are, but we are mostly immune to that kind of death here. However, I’ll be the first to admit that it hurts more than I am allowed to say with my chosen occupation.” That got a small chuckle from Harlow, despite how dark the pastor’s joke was.

In that moment, a familiar duo and dog entered the church and immediately made a b-line for the young woman. “Harlow! Are you alright? We came as quickly as we could,” Raegan paused, looking up at the roof and making a distinctly annoyed sound at the new bullet holes in the roof, “Well, at least it won’t rain tonight, at least not here. I know the northwest will get hit with it, but it’s England, so…”

Sunny hopped up onto the pew next to Harlow and immediately laid her fluffy head on the young woman’s lap, allowing herself to be pet. Meanwhile, Scott surveyed the situation, nodding satisfiedly that everything was mostly intact. Turning to Virgil, he cocked his head curiously, “How were they this time?”

The pastor grimaced, “Well, they were admittedly less destructive than usual. However, someone has apparently stolen Mr. Helcross’s snakes—”

“Blankface or Scarface?” Deputy Trout crossed his arms, itching at his constant five-o-clock shadow, “I can never remember which of them was the snake charmer and which one was the tightrope walker.”

Virgil nodded, “Ah, it was Jay, the younger brother. Someone has stolen his snakes and he has threatened to shoot us all if he doesn’t get them back in one week. They also know about Harlow’s existence, but I am uncertain if they will try anything.”

Raegan nodded, nudging Sunny off of Harlow and helping the girl stand up, “Thank you, Virgil. This is important for us to know. Clearly someone has been stealing things, from both Vincent and from Jay Helcross,” she looked down at Harlow, “Let’s take this conversation elsewhere, we have someone else we would like you to meet, and there’s food involved if you’re interested.”

Harlow nodded, shakily grabbing her things as Deputies Bishop and Trout walked back toward the door with Sunny in tow, “Of course. Thank you again, Father Leeds!” she bid the pastor goodbye and strode after the two deputies, not seeing the nervous frown tainting his usual serene features.


End file.
